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TALES OF TO-DAY 








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ALES OF 


To-Day. 


BY 



GEORGE R. SIMS, 

II 

AUTHOR OF “rogues AND VAGABONDS,” “THE LIGHTS o' LON- 
DON, ” “three brass balls,” “crutch and tooth- 
pick,” HOW THE POOR LIVE,” ETC., ETC. 






NEW YORK 

FRANK F. LOVELL & COMPANY 

142 AND 144 Worth Street , 



Copyright, 1889, 

By John W Lovell. 


THE BLOOMSBURY MURDER. 


Shortly after half-past six o’clock on the morning of the 
4 th of December, i88 — , the front door of a small house in 
a street near Bloomsbury Square was opene.d-^utiously, 
and a gentleman came out and walked briskly away in the 
direction of Charing Cross. The policeman on duty was 
up at the top of the street, and he remembered the cir- 
cumstance afterwards. He thought nothing of it at the 
time, as he supposed the gentleman was going away some- 
where by an early train, and that he had left so quietly in 
order to avoid disturbing the other inmates, who might be 
asleep. It was still dark at the time, and the policeman, 
who was turning the corner, just caught sight of the man 
coming out, and that was all. 

At eight o'clock a servant girl rushed to the door of the 
same house and screamed “ Murder ! ” at the top of her 
voice. A small crowd collected at once. ^‘Oh, my poor 
mistress!" wailed the terrified girl. “She’s been mur- 
dered in her bed. Run for a doctor, quick, somebody. 
Oh, dear I oh, dear 1 whatever shall I do ? " 

A gentleman in the crowd at once stepped forward. 
He was a doctor returning from a case he had been called 
up to attend to in the night. 

“ I am a doctor," he said, and accompanied by a con- 
stable who had just arrived upon the scene, he followed 
the distracted girl into the house. 

As soon as they had entered, the door was clpsed in the 
face of the now rapidly increasing crowd of Sightseers, 
who were pressing forward to ascertain details of the 
tragedy. 


4 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


The doctor and the constable, conducted by the servant, 
made their way to a front bedroom on the first floor, and 
there a shocking spectacle met their eyes. 

Lying back on the bed lay a young and handsome wo- 
man of about eight and twenty. Her hands were clenched, 
her beautiful brown eyes were opened wide in staring 
agony. It wanted but a glance to see that the poor creat- 
ure had been foully murdered. The bed clothing was 
saturated with blood, from a terrible wound in her breast. 
Which had evidently oozed. 

A short examination was sufficient for the doctor. ‘ ‘ She 
has been stabbed to the heart,” he said. “There wasn’t 
much of a struggle, I should say. Probable the poor 
creature started up on seeing the weapon in the hand of 
her murderer, made one frenzied movement, and then fell 
back under the deadly blow.” 

The constable, who had been looking about the room 
while the doctor was at his work, now stepped forward. 

“ I sent a message for the Inspector, sir,” he said, “be- 
fore I came in. He’ll be here directly. Perhaps you’ll 
kindly wait till he comes.” 

The doctor consented, and he had not long to wait. 
The Inspector arrived in hot haste, and having taken a 
note of such information a-s the doctor could give, took 
his name and address, thanked him and bade him good 
morning. 

Then leaving the constable in charge of the room, he 
went downstairs and interviewed the servant girl. The 
facts he was able to gather from her were few and simple. 

The murdered lady was a Mrs. Clowbury. She was the 
wife of Mr. George Clowbury, a commercial traveller. 
They kept the house entirely to themselves, employing 
only one servant, the witness. Mr. Clowbury was rarely 
at home, being constantly “on a journey.” On the pre- 
vious day he arrived home unexpectedly about four in the 
afternoon. Mistress was very cross that he hadn’t sent 
her a telegram. She heard him say that he was off again 
in the morning. Mr. and Mrs. Clowbury had tea to- 
gether, and after tea she thought that they quarrelled, for 
she heard loud talking as she passed the sitting-room door. 

Did she know what the quarrel was about ? 

Well, she thought it was about “ a gentleman.” 

Pressed a little, the girl explained that Mrs. Clowbury 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


5 


had a splendid voice and was always saying- that she 
would take to the stage and sing in public. Master didn’t 
like the idea. Lately her mistress had been taking sing- 
ing lessons, unknown to the master, of an Italian gentle- 
man. This Italian gentleman had called once or twice 
lately, and she thought it might be that which made mas- 
ter jealous, as she heard him say something about “ that 
d — d foreigner.” Somebody might have told him. She 
had not. 

Asked if she could say what her mistress’s movements 
had been on the previous day, she replied that her mis- 
tress had gone out in the morning. In the afternoon the 
foreign gentleman came. After he left her mistress seemed 
very agitated. She was upstairs for some time, and she 
heard her mistress opening and shutting the wardrobe, 
and she fancied she was packing or something of the sort. 
After that her mistress came downstairs to the sitting- 
room, and began to write. She was writing a letter 
when the girl went into the room. After she had written 
it she tore it up and threw it into the fire. Then she 
wrote another, and took it out and posted it herself. She 
had just come back when they heard a key turn in the 
front door, and the master came in. 

“Oh !” said the Inspector, “ then he carried a key of 
the house .? ” 

“Yes, sir, always. When we knew he was coming 
off a journey late we left the front door unbolted instead 
of sitting up for him.” 

The Inspector made a few more inquiries, and the in- 
formation amounted to this. At eight o’clock that even- 
ing the master took a portmanteau and went away. He 
seemed in a temper. Mistress didn’t come to the door to 
see him off. The girl heard him tell the cabman “Charing 
Cross Hotel.’* Mistress seemed very much put out about 
the master’s going away like that. She went to bed about 
eleven o’clock, and that was the last that she (the girl) 
saw of her until she went into the bedroom with the hot 
water about eight and found her poor mistress dead. 

The Inspector looked over the notes he had taken, and 
thought the matter over to himself. So far as was known 
the house was closed at eleven o’clock with only these 
two women in it. There were no signs of the premises 
having been entered in the night, but at eight o’clock the 


6 TALES OF TO-DAY. 

next morning one of the two inmates was found murdered. 

The Inspector had, of course, duly cautioned the girl 
before letting her make a statement, but he was convinced 
from the first that she was perfectly innocent of the crime. 
There was no sign of anything having been taken. The 
poor woman’s gold watch and chain and her rings were 
still on the little dressing table. It was no midnight rob- 
ber who had done the deed. But it had been done, and 
some one must have entered the house to do it. 

While the Inspector was thinking the circumstances 
over in order to provide himself with a theory, a messenger 
arrived from the station. The man who was on night 
duty had been communicated with, and he had given the 
valuable piece of information that he had seen a man 
leaving the house at half-past six, but could not say what he 
was like owing to the darkness. The only other person he 
noticed in the street was a woman who was passing on 
the opposite side of the way. 

“ The man was the murderer,” said the Inspector to 
himself. “ He was seen to go out, but how did he get 
in?” 

Before trying to decide the question, the Inspector re- 
turned to the scene of the crime. He looked carefully 
about the room, but' there wasn’t a scrap of anything that 
would serve him as a clue. When he had finished his 
search he drew the bed curtains back to have one more 
look at the victim ; as he did so his foot struck against 
some hard metallic substance. He looked down at once. 
There on the ground, close to the bedside, lay a latchkey. 

He picked it up and called to the servant to come to 
him. 

‘ ‘ How many latchkeys are there to the door ? ” he asked. 

^‘Two, sir. The one master always carried, and the 
one I keep in the kitchen to let myself in when I run 
errands.” 

“Where is yours now ? ” 

“In the kitchen, sir. ” 

‘ ‘ Go and fetch it ” 

The girl went downstairs and returned in a moment 
with her key. The Inspector took it and compared it with 
the one he had just picked up. 

“Come,” he said to himself. “There isn’t much 
mystery about this case. Mr. George Clowbury will have 


TALES OF TChDAY. 


7 


some difficulty in proving that he didn’t let himself into 
the house last night, and that he didn’t drop his latchkey 
in his wife’s bedroom.” 

One more important fact he elicited from the girl, which 
was that her master when travelling always carried a 
sword stick, or rather a stiletto stick, the blade being very 
short. This stick he had with him when he returned 
home, and he took it away with him. 

He was just going when a thought occurred to him. 

‘ ‘ Who closed the house up last night .? ” he said to the girl. 

“ I did, sir.” 

“Did you bolt the front door? ” 

“No, sir. I asked mistress if I should, and she said, 
‘No, perhaps your master will change his mind and 
come back to-night. ’ ” 

“ That will do. Thank you.” 

Leaving two constables in charge of the premises, the 
Inspector went off at once to Scotland Yard to put the 
machinery in motion for securing the presence of Mr. 
George Clowbury at the inquest on his murdered wife. 


The first inquiry to be made by the detective was at 
Charing Cross Hotel. There it was found that a person 
answering the description of Mr. Clowbury arrived about 
8-30 in the evening and took a bedroom. He left his 
luggage in the Hall, stating that he was going away by 
the 7-40 train in the morning. He was told the number of 
his room, but didn’t go to it. He went into the smoking 
room and shortly afterwards went out. The next that was 
seen of him was when he came in through the station en- 
trance about seven o’clock, asked for his bill, and for his 
luggage to be taken to the Continental express. The 
chambermaid reported that the room given to him had 
not been occupied. A communication was at once sent 
to the French police, and a detective, armed with a photo- 
graph of Mr. Clowbury, taken from his wife’s album, was 
despatched to Paris, to which place it was ascertained 
from the hotel porter Mr. Clowbury’s portmanteau had 
been registered through. 

“ He must be a bit of a flat,” said the principal detec- 
tive to his associate. “If he’s gone on to Paris he must 
know that he’ll be stopped when he gets out of the train 
and claims his luggage this evening. Perhaps he’s for^ 


8 TALES OF TO-DAY. 

gotten there’s such a thing as the electric telegraph.” 

The next visit paid was to Mr. Clowbury’s employers, 
a firm of cloth manufacturers of Bradford and London. 
The information obtained of them showed that Mr. Clow- 
bury in going to Paris was acting on their instructions en- 
tirely. Their regular French traveller was upable to take 
the journey on account of a sudden attack of gout, and 
Clowbury had been summoned from Nottingham to take 
his place at a day’s notice. 

During the day telegrams were received from the French 
authorities. Neither at Calais nor at Amiens had anybody 
been sufficiently recognized from the meagre description 
wired to warrant their being detained. But in the evening 
a more satisfactory message was received. A man an- 
swering the description sent to Paris had claimed a port- 
manteau. Asked his name, he had given it as George 
Clowbury, and had been detained. An English official 
had interviewed him, and told him that his wife had been 
found murdered. He had appeared horrified and over- 
whelmed at the intelligence, and had expressed his desire 
to return at once to London. As under these circumstances 
there was no necessity to go through any formalities in 
the French court, and on the following day George Clow- 
bury arrived in London, and was formally arrested. 

To the police he insisted upon making a statement. He 
declared that he could hardly believe that the terrible 
news was true. He admitted that he had quarrelled with 
his wife, and that in a fit of temper he had said that as he 
wasn’t welcome at home he would go to an hotel, and he 
had left the house, taking his luggage with him. He was 
very much upset by an anonymous letter he had received, 
informing him that a foreigner was in the habit of visiting 
his wife during his absence. His wife had not satisfied 
him in her explanation, and he had said some very unkind 
things to her. 

After he got to the hotel he felt very restless and un- 
happy. He didn’t care to go to bed, so he went out for 
a walk. While out he met a friend who asked him to 
come to the club. He went, and remained with his friend 
smoking and talking till past three in the morning. As he 
had to be up again soon after six, he didn’t think it worth 
while to go to bed, and the idea came into his head that 
he would go home and say good-bye to his wife and ask 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


9 


her to part friends. He walked to his house in Blooms- 
bury and got there about half-past four, and let himself in 
with his latchkey. His wife was surprised, but very 
pleased to see him. He had a long talk with her, and she 
told him everything. She explained that the foreign gen- 
tleman was a Signor Moroni, who was a singing master, 
and that he had been trying to induce her to join a con- 
cert company which he was forming. She assured him 
that this was all the foundation for his suspicions, and as 
he knew his wife had a beautiful voice and had often been 
told that she ought to sing in public, he saw no reason to 
doubt her statement. At half-past six he left to go back 
to the hotel, and claim his luggage and pay his bill, in or- 
der to get away by the 7-40 train. They parted the best of 
friends. ‘ ‘ The next thing I heard, ” said Clowbury, ‘ * was 
that my poor wife had been found murdered in her bed. 
I saw her alive at half-past six. She must have been killed 
almost immediately afterwards. ” Asked about the stiletto 
which he usually carried, he declared that he had lost it 
on the journey to Paris. 

The admission by the prisoner that he had been in his 
wife’s room during the night, and his failure to produce 
the weapon he was known to carry, seemed to most peo- 
ple to point conclusively to his guilt. It was argued that 
his story had been made up to suit the finding of the latch- 
key. At the coroner’s inquest, where all the facts came 
out, the case seemed proved to the hilt against the hus- 
band. The jealousy and the quarrel supplied the motive 
for the crime, and the medical evidence showed that the 
wound had the appearance of being caused with just such 
a weapon as the one the servant described as belonging to 
her master. 

After the evidence at the coroner’s inquest and before 
the magistrate most people were satisfied that the mur- 
derer was the woman’s jealous husband. Instead of a 
reconciliation they believed that there had been a fresh 
quarrel, and that in his passion he had stabbed her to the 
heart with some weapon yet to be discovered, and had in- 
tended, as soon as he reached Paris, to disappear. 

After the prisoner had been committed for trial, public 
interest in the case lapsed for a time. 

One witness was absent at the magisterial examination, 
but it was hoped he would be present at the trial. This 


10 


TALES OF OT-BAY, 


was the Italian professor of singing. The police traced 
him to his lodgings, but only to find that he had left for 
the Continent. His evidence would not be of any great 
value, as it was possible the wife’s story was correct, and 
he had simply called upon her to induce her to adopt the 
operatic stage as a profession. Signor Moroni, it was as- 
certained, had done a little in the agency business, and 
probably would have made a good speculation of so val- 
uable a recruit. 

In the meantime, George Clowbury was in prison, and 
his only visitor was his solicitor, Mr. Bartram, an old 
friend who had taken the case up con amore. 

Mr. Bartram did not disguise from the unhappy man 
that the facts looked very black against him. He hastened 
to assure Clowbury that he believed him innocent, 
but he pointed out to him that the difficulty was to make 
the jury also of his way of thinking. 

“I've told the truth,” Clowbury replied, despairingly; 
“ what more can I do ? ” I tell you honestly that I can’t 
see myself how my poor girl could have been murdered 
after I left the house. No one had any reason to do such 
a dreadful thing, and if any person had, how did he get 
in .? The police say that there are not the slightest signs 
of any one having made a forcible entrance, and the ser- 
vant declares that she heard no noise.” 

“She must be a sound sleeper,” replied the solicitor, 
“because she didn’t hear you go out.” 

Talking of the servant, an idea came to the solicitor. 
Shaking his friend’s hand, and promising to see him again 
on the morrow, he left the prison. 

Mr. Bartram drove straight to the address of the ser- 
vant. She was living at home with her own people. 
He found her in, and at once began to cross-examine her 
concerning what was in her mind. 

“Your master says he left the house at half-past six. 
Were you asleep at that time ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ What time did you wake up ? ” 

“It was seven o’clock, sir. It was the clock striking 
that woke me. That was my time to come down, and I 
got up and dressed at once.” 

“ How long before you were downstairs?” 

“About ten minutes.” 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


“If anybody had left the house after you went down 
you would have heard them ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, because I was in the kitchen, and that is in 
front of the house. I should probably have seen any- 
body go down the steps.’' 

“That,” said Mr. Bartram, “fixes the murder between 
6-30, when Mr. Clowbury left, and 7-10 when you were 
downstairs ? ” 

“Well, sir, yes ; unless it’s true that master ” 

“Never mind about master,” replied Mr. Bartram. 
“You don’t want him hanged if he’s innocent, do you?” 

“ God forbid, sir ; and I’ve never been sure in my own 
mind as he ” 

“ Never mind that. Now listen to me. When did you 
go to the front door ? ” 

“Not till I’d found poor missus dead — then I rushed 
out. ” 

“ Wasn’t there any milk or anything to take in ? ” 

“ No, sir ; that’s always put down the area.” 

“Did you notice if the front door was shut to all 
right ? ” 

“I didn’t notice anything, sir. I was in such a fearful 
state of mind.” 

“Naturally. Now one more question. You didn’t 
happen to notice to whom the letter was addressed that 
your mistress posted that afternoon ? ” 

“No, sir.” 

“ Where did she write it ? ” 

“In the sitting-room, sir.” 

“ Had she a desk or anything ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ How did you come to be in the room while she was 
writing it? ” 

“ She rang the bell for me.” 

“What for?” 

“ She told me to find her some blotting paper.” 

‘ ‘ Did you ? ” 

“I couldn’t find any about, so I lent her my book.” 
“Your book ! What sort of a book ? ” 

“ It’s a blotting case that my young man gave me on 
my birthday.” 

“ Have you got it now ? ” 

“Yes, sir. I’ll fetch it.” 


TALES OF TO-I)AY. 


I 2 


The girl went to her bedroom and returned with the 
blotting book, which she handed to the solicitor.* It was 
a little eighteenpenny American leather one, and con- 
tained six or eight leaves of blotting-paper. 

“ Have you torn any out ? '' asked Mr. Bartram. 

“None, sir.” 

“ May I borrow this for an hour or two ?” 

“Certainly, sir.” 

“Mr. Bartram took the blotting book and drove to his 
office. He had a hope, but a very forlorn one, that a 
very old trick of which he had often heard might cast a 
ray of light upon the dark path he was treading. 

When he got to his office he procured a piece of look- 
ing-glass and opened the blotting book. Only the two 
centre sheets had been used to blot letters. He held the 
looking glass upright on the paper, and two kinds of 
writing were instantly revealed, the maid’s, and as he 
presumed, the mistress’s. 

In the latter hand, a big, firm, almost manly one, only 
a few words were discernible. 

They were these : — 

“cannot leave husband. , Go 

without not see you again, 

all my folly now. 

“By Heaven!” exclaimed the solicitor, as he de- 
ciphered the last word, and brought his fist down on 
the table with a bang, “ the letter that unhappy woman 
wrote was one breaking off an assignation with this 
foreigner. ‘ I cannot leave (my) husband, go without 
(me). (I can)not see you again. (I see) all my folly now.’ 
She was going away with this fellow — then — hehadbeen 
that afternoon. It was to be an elopement. The girl 
said something about packing a box, and then her mis- 
tress leaving off and coming down and writing that 
letter. Her conscience touched her just in time, per- 
haps. No wonder she was worried when her husband 
popped in so unexpectedly. No wonder she resented his 
jealousy so much. 

“And this man left London the next day to fulfil a 
continental engagement. She was to have gone with 


TALES OF TO-DA Y. 


13 

him. That night he received her letter. How mad he 
must have been ! 

“How 

The solicitor paused, and sat for a moment absorbed 
in a brown study. Then he rose slowly, locked the 
servant’s blotting book in his desk, put on his hat and 
coat, and went out. 

He dined that evening at his club, smoked a cigar, 
and about nine o’clock strolled down to Covent Garden 
and asked his way to the stage door. 

He went in and saw the stage door-keeper. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but could you give 
me any idea what is the best way to find the address of an 
Italian singer if you want it ? ” 

The stage-door keeper looked at the gentleman over 
his spectacles. 

“Can’t say. I’m sure. Some of ’em have so many. 
Is it a principal or a chorus you want ? ” 

“ A principal.” 

“ Well, the agents generally knows them. What might 
be the gentleman’s name you want ?” 

“ Signor Moroni.” 

“ Signor Moroni ; oh, him what’s name has been men- 
tioned in the Bloomsbury murder. We’ve got a little 
chap here as knows him well, he says. He was to have 
gone out with his company abroad, he says.” 

“ Oh ! Could I see this gentleman ? ” 

“Yes, I daresay. He’s on in the pantomime which is 
rehearsing now, but I’ll send a message down.” 

A boy was despatched, and in about five minutes an 
odd, fat little fellow came panting up the staircase. 

Mr. Bartram politely explained his business and the 
gentleman was quite affable directly. 

“Oh yes, I know Moroni well, lodged in the same 
house when I was better off, sir. I could have gone 
with him but for the missis and the kids. No, sir, I’m 
not Italian as you guess, you can tell that by my Hing- 
lish. Moroni was going to take a concert party through 
the south of France and after that to Halgiers, so he said. 
I should say he’d be in Nice now, or somewhere that 
way. ” 

“ Then, if I sent to Nice — to Signor Moroni—” 

“ Lord, no ! He wasn’t going to run the show in that 


14 


TALES OF TO-BAY. 


name ; that's the name he teaches in here. He has 
another for business of a speckylative kind like this. 
He’s touring as “ Signor Del Marco, of the Royal Italian 
Opera, London and St. Petersburgh. 

“ Del Marco ! Thank you, very much.” 

With a profusion of thanks Mr. Bartram shook hands 
with his informant and departed. 

The next day he had a long interview with the pris- 
oner, and told him he was going out of town; that he 
should be absent for a week, but that his interests would 
not be neglected. In the meantime he bade him be of 
good heart, and hope that all might yet be made clear 
and his innocence established. 

Mr. Bartram went straight to Nice, travelling by the 
Nice and Rome express. In Nice he found that the 
celebrated Del Marco Opera Company had appeared, 
and made a grand fiasco, and that the eminent impressario 
had left without discharging his debts in the town, and 
that consequently he had not informed anybody where 
his next engagement was. 

“ If you ask me,” said the hotel-keeper, who was his 
informant, ‘‘1 should say that the people Del Marco 
brought out with him have had enough of it, and that the 
company won’t appear together anywhere again. If you 
want Del Marco I should go and look for him at Monte 
Carlo. That’s where he’s most likely to be.” 

Mr. Bartram took the hint, and went on the next day 
to Monte Carlo. There were plenty of Italians there, and 
as the solicitor had never seen Del Marco, he wondered 
how he should find him. 

Fortune favored him. 

Some Englishmen were standing by one of the roulette 
tables where a foreign-looking man, with a dark mus- 
tache and fierce Southern eyes, was winning heavily. 

“ Don’t you recognize him } ” said one Englishman to 
the other ; that’s the fellow who had the opera company 
that came to grief. He stayed at our hotel. That’s how 
I know him.” 

That was enough for Mr. Bartram. He determined to 
stand by the Italian and wait till he had finished playing. 

As the Italian won heavily he had to wait some consid- 
erable time. At last luck seemed to be on the change. 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


15 


The Italian lost as rapidly as he had won. The pile of 
gold and notes in front of him rapidly diminished. Pres- 
ently he rose from his seat, put what money he had left 
into his pocket and strolled away. 

Mr. Bartram followed him out of the gaming room and in- 
to the grounds. The night had come on and the moon had 
risen into the heavens and was bathing the lovely gardens 
of the ‘ ‘ plague spot of Europe ” in soft silver light. 

The Italian strolled across the grounds to the Hotel de 
Paris, famous for its restaurant. 

The Italian was about to enter the restaurant when Mr. 
Bartram touched his elbow. 

The Italian turned with a little start. 

^‘Pardon me, signor,” said the solicitor, raising his hat, 
“but have I not the pleasure of addressing Signor Del 
Marco ? ” 

The Italian eyed the Englishman steadily for a moment. 
Then he said quietly “Well, sir, and then — ” 

“My dear sir, I was so afraid I had made a mistake. 
I — er — it is a matter of private business on which I wish 
to speak to you. Will you dine with me ? ” 

The Italian hesitated. 

“You are a stranger to me, sir.” 

“True. Let me explain my business. I have — er — a 
young lady friend — a very beautiful girl ; she is most 
anxious to adopt the operatic stage as a profession. I 
have heard so much of you as an agent and tutor that I 
thought if you — ” 

Del Marco’s face brightened; he saw the chance of 
doing business. 

“I understand what you mean, sir,” he said, “but for 
this sort of thing my terms are high. To take an unknown 
young lady and make her a star, get her good parts and 
ensure her favorable press notices, is a difficult task. I 
should require, if I am satisfied with the lady’s appear- 
ance and voice, £200 down on the signing of the agree- 
ment” 

“Certainly — that is moderate.” 

“And the lady — ? ” 

“Is in Paris. But I can telegraph for her at once. 
Then if we say in four days' time .? ” 

“Yes. Where shall we meet ? ” 

“J am staying at the Hotel de Paris, My name is 


i6 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


Colonel Bentley. You can call on me at any time. Now, 
having settled our business, do me the honor of dining 
with me,” said the Englishman. 

They went into the restaurant together, and the Eng- 
lishman took a table. Then leaving his guest for a mo- 
ment he went into the hotel and engaged an apartment 
in the name of Colonel Bentley, explaining that he would 
go back to Nice that night and return with his luggage on 
the following day. 

Before returning to the restaurant he wrote out two 
telegrams addressed to persons in London, and sent the 
hotel porter to the telegraph office with them at once. 

Then he returned and played host to the famous Signor 
del Marco and when the dinner was over, the Italian felt 
quite sure that he had hooked a big fish, and had only to 
play him properly to land him high and dry. 

On the day after the interview with the Italian, Mr. 
Bartram, or Colonel Bentley, as he now called himself, 
took up his quarters at the Hotel de Paris, Monte Carlo. 
Several telegrams arrived for him during the next twelve 
hours, and on the morning of the fourth day, the one on 
which he was to renew his business conversation with 
the Signor, a gentleman came to the Hotel and asked for 
the Colonel. 

The stranger was conducted to the Colonel’s sitting room. 

“ Colonel Bentley?" said the stranger. 

Yes ; and you are ? " 

“ Inspector Grim wade, of Scotland Yard. I have come 
out here to relieve our regular man, and my chief has 
given me the correspondence you have sent to the office 
and asked me to call on you. Your telegram states that 
the murderer of Mrs. Clowbury is here. We say that the 
murderer is in our hands already." 

“ The husband !" 

“Yes." 

“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Grimwade, to have to differ with 
Scotland Yard ; but I say he is here, and I want him 
arrested. " 

‘ ‘ It’s not an easy matter to arrest a man on suspicion. 
There are a lot of formalities to go through. In fact, under 
the circumstances, one man already being in custody for 
the crime, I don’t really see what is to be done — at any 
rate here." 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


17 


“ I am quite aware of the difficulties, and that is why 
I ask for assistance," replied the solicitor. 

“ Who is the man ? ” 

“ Moroni." 

“ What, the Italian, that the husband was said to be 
jealous of? " 

“ Yes." 

The detective shrugged his shoulders, My dear sir," 
he said, “ you must excuse me if I appear stupid, but I 
can't for the life of me see how you can justify such a 
theory. The husband of this woman was the only person 
in the house that night. She was murdered .with a sharp 
instrument, and we have proved that the husband had in 
his possession a sword stick — or rather a stiletto stick. 
The medical evidence proved that the wound was one 
which would have been caused by such an instrument, 
and the husband acknowledges that he had such a stick 
with him at the time, and that he took it away from 
the house and lost it on the journey to Paris, which means 
that he got rid of it. These facts are as clear as noonday 
and all point in one direction. Now you say this Italian 
committed the murder. Perhaps you'll tell me how he got 
into the house that night — why he waited until seven in 
the morning to murder her — (it must have been nearly as 
late as that if the husband's story that he left his wife 
alive at six-thirty is true), and what the motive for the 
crime could have been ; and also, if the murder was com- 
mitted with this stiletto stick, how the Italian got possession 
of it after the husband had taken it away, and started for 
Paris with it." 

“ I confess there are difficulties to be overcome," replied 
the solicitor, “ but I am convinced in my own mind that 
Clowbury is innocent. As to the motive, it was dis- 
appointed love, if we can profane the word by using it in 
such a connection ; rage, jealousy, if you like. At any 
rate I have proof that this Italian had arranged with the 
murdered woman to elope with him, probably on the very 
morning of the murder ; that on the previous afternoon 
she sent him a letter refusing after all to go away with 
him, and telling him that she would not see him again." 

“ Oh, that's a new bit of evidence. Where did you get 
that from ? " 

I did get it How, I will show you presently. Now, 


i8 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


granting that this was the situation of affairs, this woman 
has an enemy, a fierce, disappointed, Italian lover; jealous 
too, for all we know, imagining that he is being thrown 
over for some one else. Since I left England, some one I 
have employed has been following up the clue in London 
for me, while I have followed it up here. Among other 
things he has interviewed Moroni’s landlady, and extracted 
the following important information from her. I had 
better read you the statement as sent to me. 

Mr. Bartram drew a letter from his pocket, and read 
the following passage to the detective : 

“ The landlady now says that on the night before the 
murder the Signor had all his things packed, and stated that 
he was going in the morning by the early Continental 
train. He had stated some time previously that he had 
made arrangements for a professional tour on the Con- 
tinent. About seven o’clock in the evening, just as he 
was going out, a letter arrived for him, which the 
servant took to him at once. He opened it and read 
it, and seem to be in great state of agitation. Half an 
hour afterwards he went out, and by the next post another 
letter arrived for him, which was placed in his room. 
What time he came in no one knows as the people went 
to bed about midnight. But at six o’clock when the 
servant called him, he was up and dressed and finishing 
his packing. The girl, going into the room to assist him 
in closing his Gladstone bag, lifted a newspaper from the 
table and discovered that the letter she had laid there for 
him on the previous evening had been accidentally 
covered over, and so he had not seen it. 

She called his attention to it at once. As he took it up 
her mistress rang, and she left the room. 

“ When she turned the Signor had his hat and coat and 
was in the hall. ‘When the cab comes,’ he said, ‘send 
it away. I sha’n’t go till a later train now,’ and with that 
he went out.” 

“ What time was that ? ” asked the detective, who had 
been following the narrative with deep interest. 

“ About a quarter-past six. That is the time fixed by 
the servant.” 

“And what time did he come back again ? ” 

“ About eight, so the servant says, and at nine o’clock 
a cab was called which took him to Holborn Viaduct,” 


TALES OF TO-DA Y. 


9 


“ According to this,” said the detective, “if the servant 
is right aU along as to time, Moroni was out of the house 
from a quarter-past six to eight o’clock.” 

“ Yes, and if the husband is telling the truth he left his 
wife alive at half-past six, and at eight o’clock she was 
found murdered. But Clowbury’s servant was downstairs 
at ten minutes past seven, and that reduces the period 
during which the crime could have been committed, suppos- 
ing the husband is innocent, to forty minutes. During that 
forty minutes this servant’s statement proves that Moroni 
was away from his lodgings. Let us look now at the 
time he would require to get to the scene of the crime. 
His lodgings were in Howland Street, Fitzroy Square. 
He could get to Bloomsbury Square under the quarter of 
an hour, easily.” 

“ Yes,” said the detective, making a mental map of the 
district, “quite easily. That’s all clear enough, provided, 
as I say, the girl is right as to the clock all along. But 
nothing that you have said explains the knotty point, which 
is, how Moroni could have got into the house in that forty 
minutes.” 

“ That’s the mystery we have to clear up,” replied the 
solicitor. “I’m firmly convinced in my own mind that 
this Italian murdered the poor woman. Up to six o’clock 
in the morning he believed that she was going away with 
him — that was doubtless agreed upon when he left her in 
the afternoon. She was to travel with the company and 
live with him as his wife. Shortly after six he received 
the letter she had written him informing him that she had 
altered her mind. He then went out. My belief is that 
he went straight to Clowbury’s house, thinking, perhaps, 
she might have altered her mind, perhaps determined to 
see her and to try to induce her to alter her determination. 
He might have intended to risk everything and knock the 
inmates up. He knew nothing of the husband being at 
home, because at the time Mrs. Clowbury wrote him that 
fatal letter she did not know of her husband’s return her- 
self. He was supposed to be safe in Nottingham. 

“My theory is that when he arrived at the house he 
saw a man coming out, a man he didn’t know, for he 
had never seen the husband, and at once jumped to the 
conclusion that he had been fooled and thrown over for 
some more favored lover, who was leaving the house at 


20 


TALES OF TO-DAT. 


that early hour to avoid being noticed by the neighbors, 
or seen by the servants. 

“His disappointment was then changed to mad jeal- 
ousy, all the passionate instincts of his race were aroused, 
and in some way he got into , the house, taxed the un- 
happy woman with betraying him, and in his mad fury 
killed her. She died, stabbed to the heart, and although 
the police account for that with the husband’s missing 
stiletto stick, remember it is an Italian who uses a stiletto 
and not an Englishman.” 

“A very plausible theory, Mr. Bartram,” said the de- 
tective, “ and I am the more inclined to think you are on 
the right track because of the husband’s conduct after he 
left the house. It wasn’t running away. 

“Of course, not ; he must have known that going to 
Paris was certain arrest at the end of the journey.” 

“Quite so, but some murderers are remarkably cool 
hands, and they rely on their straightforward conduct as 
a proof of their innocence. Still we are not here to dis- 
cuss that. What can we do about the Italian ? I 
can’t arrest him without a warrant, and before I could 
get one if he smells a rat he’ll be -off. Where is he 
now ? ” 

“ Here. He will call on me at four o’clock this after- 
noon on business.” 

“Yes, but he’ll go away again. The thing is how to 
keep him until I can get instructions from the office and 
get a little more evidence. Why can’t we work some- 
thing here ? ” 

“The people here don’t care to be too officious. You 
see, half the swindlers in Europe come here, and as they 
bring money the authorities don’t want to frighten them 
away. ” 

“Very well, I’ll get him to Nice somehow. Give me 
this evening and to-morrow to work there, and come to- 
morrow night by the train which leaves here in the even- 
ing. I’ll look it out in the time table before I go, and I 
shall know what time to expect you.” 

“ What do you propose to do ? ” 

“ I can’t tell till I’ve seen the Nice police. What time 
is Moroni to come to you ? ” 

“At four o’clock this afternoon.” 

“ Good. Then I won’t leave here till after you’ve seen 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


2 


him. ril be in the reading-room of this hotel at five. 
You can come to me there.” 

Mr. Grimwade shook hands with the solicitor and left 
him. 

“It’s a curious business,” he said to himself as he 
strolled out into the grounds. “If this man is the mur- 
derer and I make a smart capture, it’ll be a feather in 
my cap. But there’ll be a nice fuss in the blessed news- 
papers if I start a fresh hare and only take the dogs off 
the other one by doing it I must be careful, and leave 
myself a loophole to creep through.” 

At four o’clock that afternoon. Signor del Marco was 
shown into the apartments of Colonel Bentley. The 
colonel rose and received him most courteously. 

“ It is very good of you, my dear signor,” he said. 

‘ ‘ I was afraid with your many engagements you might 
have forgotten the appointment 

“I never forget business, sir,” replied the Italian. 

And the young lady — is she arrived ” 

“Not yet She telegraphs me that she will be in Nice 
to-morrow evening. The delay is most unfortunate, as 
I have to return to London myself on urgent business, 
and I must leave here to-morrow. If you could go with 
me as far as Nice ” 

The Italian hesitated. 

The Englishman hastened to reassure him. 

“I can goby the last train from here. We can see 
the young lady at the hotel, settle the matter, and you 
can return here the next morning. ” 

“ Do I understand that if I approve of the young lady’s 
appearance and voice, and agree to bring her out, you 
pay me £200 on the signing of the agreement ? ” 

“Certainly. If you will accompany me to-morrow, 
the thing can be settled.” 

“I will come with you.” 

“Thank you very much. Dine with me to-morrow 
evening, and we can go to the station together after- 
wards. ” 

The colonel conducted his guest downstairs. As they 
passed through the hall, Inspector Grimwade was going 
into the reading-room. He turned in time to get a full 
view of the Italian, and started as if he had been struck. 


22 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


When the solicitor returned, the Inspector had scarcely 
recovered himself. “If that’s Moroni,” he said, “ I know 
him. He’s been through my hands. I’m certain, but I can’t 
recollect now what for. But he wasn’t called Moroni 
then, or I should have remembered the name at once.” 

“Come up to my room,” said the solicitor, “ we can 
talk there. Have a cigar and try and recollect what you 
know of this man.” 

The detective sat and smoked for a little while. Pres- 
ently he jumped up and exclaimed, “I have it. It was 
five years ago — he called himself Alessandri then. It 
was a swindling job. He had an agency in a back street 
in Soho, and we made inquiries concerning him for the 
French authorities. He had been getting money from 
French singers and dancers by promising them engage- 
ments in London. He’s a shifty customer, and up to 
every dodge under the sun. We shall have all our work 
to stop him slipping through our fingers if he has the 
slightest suspicion. I’ll go back to Nice at once and set 
to work. To-morrow evening I shall be at the station, 
when the train from Monte Carlo arrives. Whatever you 
do take no notice of me, but as you get out of the train, 
just as a precaution take his arm in a friendly way and 
begin talking to him. Then if he recognizes me and tries 
to bolt, you can hold him till I come up.” 

The solicitor promised to obey the detective’s instruc- 
tions, and after a little further conversation they parted, 
the detective going on to Nice by the next train. 

Left alone, Mr. Bartram began to piece all the new evi- 
dence together, and it seemed to him that once having 
secured the Italian there would be little difficulty in bring- 
ing the crime home to him. He might be able, by fresh 
evidence, to establish his theory of how Moroni obtained 
access to the house on the fatal morning. 

The next evening, when the train from Monte Carlo 
arrived at Nice, two gentlemen stepped out of a first-class 
carriage. As they reached the platform, one of them, an 
Englishman, slipped his arm through that of his compan- 
ion, an Italian. 

“ Now, my dear fellow,” he said, “ a few minutes will 
bring us to the young lady. I do hope you will form a 
good opinion of her and be able to do what she wishes.” 
At the- same moment an Englishman came along the 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


23 


platform, accompanied by two officials of the Nice police. 
Halting in front of the Italian, one of the officials touched 
him on the arm and said, “Signor Moroni, you are my 
prisoner.” 

Two gendarmes at this moment stepped up and stood 
beside the Italian. 

His face changed to a deathly pallor and a look of ter- 
ror came into his eyes. 

“What do you mean ? ” he stammered. “ I — I — what 
is the charge against me?” 

“You are charged,” was the reply, “with having ob- 
tained by false .pretences, from Jeanne Fontenay, a mem- 
ber of your operatic company, the sum of 3,000 francs.” 

The Italian’s color returned to his cheeks. “ It is ab- 
surd to arrest me on such a charge as that,” he said ; “ it 
was a business transaction, nothing more. She paid me 
the money to obtain her an engagement, and I did.” 

“ Yes,” replied the official, “you engaged her yourself, 
with others of your dupes, and disbanded the company 
in a fortnight, without paying them a farthing of salary. 
That is swindling, my friend, not business. But you 
can argue the matter out before the court. Come along.” 

The Italian turned to Bartram, fiercely. “You are at 
the bottom of this, ” he said. ‘ ‘ I have fallen into the 
snare that you laid for me. You shall pay for it.” 

“Well,” exclaimed the detective, as the gendarmes 
marched their prisoner off, “don’t you think I’ve worked 
it nicely ? I thought they would be able to find an ex- 
cuse for arresting the illustrious Signor here. To-mor- 
row I’ll have an interview with my gentleman in his 
new apartments, and spring the Bloomsbury murder on 
him. I’ll come to your hotel and let you know all 
about it.” 


On the following day the English detective, accom- 
panied by a French official, visited the crestfallen Moroni 
in his cell. 

“Signor Del Marco, or Moroni, or whatever you call 
yourself,” said the detective, “I trust you will be able to 
clear yourself of this charge at once.” 

“ What interest is it to you? ’’exclaimed the Italian, look- 
ing the detective defiantly in the face. 

“Well, you see. if you get out of prison on this charge. 


24 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


you will be able to accompany me to England at once.” 

The Italian started and changed color. 

“Ah, perhaps you have not heard. You don’t read 
the English nswspapers.” 

“ I have not read an English newspaper since I have 
been abroad.” 

“Oh ! then that, of course, accounts for your ignor- 
ance of the fact that you’re wanted as a witness in a 
murder case ? ” 

The detective watched the Italian’s face closely as he 
spoke. His pallor increased, there was a nervous twitch- 
ing of the mouth, and his voice trembled as the signor re- 
plied : “Murder — witness — I — I don’t understand you.” 

“Let me explain then. Some time last year you be- 
came acquainted with an English lady named Clowbury. ” 

The Italian bent his head and made no reply. 

“This lady was a married woman, but you endeav- 
ored to induce her to leave her husband. She was to 
have accompanied you on this tour — ” 

“Ah, you know that?” exclaimed the Italian, startled 
out of his caution. 

“Yes, we know that, and we know more. We know 
that early on the morning she was to -have gone away 
with you, you received a letter from her which dashed all 
your hopes to the ground. On receipt of that letter you 
left the house. During the time you were absent from 
your house, the woman who had disappointed you was 
murdered — stabbed to the heart with a stiletto such as 
Italians carry.” 

The Italian, as he listened to the detective, seemed to 
be a prey to a variety of emotions. It was ‘^ome time 
before he could speak. 

‘ ‘ I know nothing of all this,” he stammered. ‘ ‘ If Mrs. 
Clowbury was murdered that morning she — Good God ! ” 
he exclaimed, suddenly checking himself, “ it is too hor- 
rible. ” 

“Signor,” said the detective, coolly, “of course you 
are terribly upset. This is all news to you.” 

“Yes, it is. I had no idea. I — I — ” Great drops of 
perspiration stood upon the man’s brow. Presently he 
exclaimed, with an effort, “You said something about 
me being a witness. Who’s charged with the crime ? ” 

“The husband.” 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


25 

“ Oh/' he said, “ and do you — do the police, think he 
did it ? ” 

“Well, some people do, and some people don't. What 
do you think, Signor?" 

‘ ‘ I — I can form no idea. I know nothing of the affair, 
I cannot be a witness. I know nothing ! Nothing ! " 
exclaimed the Italian, fiercely. “You have no right to 
question me, and I will not answer. If you think I com- 
mitted the murder why don’t you charge me with it ? " 

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do. That’s why I 
want you to settle this little affair here as soon as possi- 
ble, my friend." 

Oh,” said the Italian, a curious look coming into his 
eyes, “that is it, is it?” This charge of swindling is 
brought against me to detain me, while you get the neces- 
sary papers from England. So. Thank you, sir, for the 
information. I shall know what to do.” 

“So shall I,” replied the detective; “and I fancy we 
shall be travelling together in about a week's time. 
Signor. ” 

“ Perhaps,” said the Italian, who had grown gradually 
calmer. “Perhaps, my friend. I do not mind having 
my fare paid back to London for me, and, if you want me 
at once, the best thing is to pay the little Fontenay well 
to withdraw the charge against me here.” 

The detective was taken aback by the Italian’s sudden 
assumption of unconcern. 

“Come,” said the detective, “I like you best when 
you’re good tempered, Signor. Of course, I don’t want 
to take you away from your business engagements if 
you’ll be no good as a witness. Suppose, just to satisfy 
my idle curiosity, you tell me where you passed your 
time on the 4th of December, between 6. 15 and 8 o'clock 
in the morning.” 

‘ ‘ I went to call upon a friend. ” 

“A lady or gentleman ? ” 

‘ ‘ A lady. 

“ Rather early, wasn't it ? ” 

“I could not call later if I was to catch the 7.40 train.” 

“Ah, but before you went out, you told the girl you 
weren’t going to catch the train.” 

“ Oh, you have seen the servant-girl, then ? You have 
been getting up a case against me, eh ? ” 


26 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


‘‘It looks like it, doesn’t it, Signor?” said the detec- 
tive with a quiet smile. 

“It does. But what a waste of your valuable time! 
My friend, I shall be able to prove that I never saw Mrs. 
Clowbury after the afternoon of the 3rd of December. ” 

“Then she wasn’t the lady you went to call on on the 
morning of the 4th ? ” 

“ Certainly not. ” 

“I hope the lady you did call on will come forward 
and say so at the trial. Signor. ” 

“ She will not” 

“Oh!” 

“She couldn’t, because she did not see me, or I her. 
I shall tell you no more. Good afternoon. 

The detective, finding there was nothing more to be 
got out of the prisoner, took his departure. He went 
back to Mr. Bartram’s hotel and told him the result of 
the interview. 

“I can’t quite make him out,” said the detective. “I 
hope to goodness we haven’t found a mare’s nest.” 

“ Don’t you think him guilty? ” 

“Well, sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t He 
really did seem startled when I said that Mrs. Clowbury 
had been found murdered. Of course, if he can account 
for his time between 6-30 and 7-10 the alibi must prove his 
innocence.” 

“ But he says himself the person he went to call on 
won’t come forward, and that she didnt see him ; so that 
tale isn’t much good.” 

“I tell you what,” said the detective, “the most im- 
portant witness in this case hasn’t been found yet. ” 

“ Whom do you mean ?” 

“Why, the woman who was passing on the opposite 
side of the street, according to the policeman, at the time 
the murderer came out.” 

“Not so,” replied the solicitor; “there is no need to 
identify the man who came out. Clowbury confesses 
that he was the man who came out at that time.” 

“Yes, but she was close enough to have observed the 
man’s manner. She must have seen him go up the street 
and besides, if the murderer was not concealed on the 
premises while Clowbury (supposing him innocent) was 
there, he must have entered very soon afterwards in order 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


27 


to commit the deed and get clear away by 7-10. At any 
rate, I should like to find that woman. I have an idea 
she might just supply the missing link.” 

“I don’t think so,” replied the solicitor. “Probably 
she was some woman going to work and didn’t take any 
notice at all.” 

“ Wait a minute,” exclaimed the detective. “I’ve an 
idea. The French system isn’t a bad one for getting the 
truth out of a prisoner. I’ll go back and just ask our 
Italian friend one more question.” 

The detective returned to the jail, and having obtained 
admission to the prisoner, apologized for his intrusion. 

The Italian shrugged his shoulders. 

“I am at your mercy,” he said. “I can’t resent your 
impertinence, so I must submit to it” 

“Quite so. Signor, but I don’t want to be impertinent 
I only want to ask you one more question. When you 
came out of Mrs. Clowbury’s house that morning, did 
you notice a woman on the opposite side of the 
street ? ” 

The Italian started. “A woman ! ” he exclaimed. “I 
— I have told you I was not there.” 

“Then,” said the detective, making a desperate shot, 
‘ ‘ the woman has done you a great wrong, for she has 
sworn that the man who left the house that morning was 
you.” 

The Italian leaped from his seat. “ This woman ? ” he 
cried, his caution deserting him, “was she English or 
Italian ? How did she know my name ? ” 

“ She had good reason to know it,” replied the detective, 
making another parting shot. “I’m afraid you’ll have 
a hard job to get over her evidence.” 

“ So ! ” cried the Italian pacing his cell, “she has dared 
to say that it was I, has she ? Ah, I know what to do 
now! ” 

The Italian’s passion was a revelation to the detective. 
It set him thinking over the man’s past history. It was 
evident that the signor had some particular woman in his 
mind. Suddenly the detective remembered that at the 
time he had Moroni through his hands he was living with 
a woman who passed for his wife. It was dangerous 
ground, but he determined to try it. If he made a mis- 
take he would be showing his hand to the suspected 


28 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


murderer, but he made up his mind to risk it. If he could 
goad him into an admission the case was settled. 

“What could you expect, Signor.? You know what 
women are, especially your countrywomen, when a man 
plays them false. I suppose she didn't like the idea of 
your throwing her over for this Englishwoman. She was 
watching the house when you came out. Jealousy, Sig- 
nor, and the most dangerous jealousy of all — the jealousy 
of a woman ! ” 

“So," cried the Signor, “she denounces me, does she ; 
says that she watched the house and saw me leave it ! 
Ah, Margherita, mia bella, you are more foolish than I 
thought you." 

“Margherita, muttered the detective to himself, “the 
woman on the opposite side of the street was an Italian 
girl named Margherita, she was the former mistress of the 
Signor, and with these facts to go on I think there is a 
chance of finding her now." 

The Italian was still pacing the cell. The detective, 
thinking it unwise to proceed any further lest he might 
get out of his depth, left him and returned in high glee to 
George Clowbury’s solicitor. 

“ You are right, sir," he cried. “You’ve been right all 
along. Moroni is the murderer, and it was a woman with 
whom he had quarrelled who watched him into the house 
and out again. We must find this woman, whose name 
is Margherita, for she is the witness who can save your 
client’s neck from the hangman’s rope." 

It was the eve of the trial of George Clowbury for the 
murder of his wife. The prisoner sat alone in his cell, a 
prey to the gloomiest thoughts. The close confinement 
and the anxiety had told upon his health, and he had of 
late fallen into a listless, hopeless state. The jail officials 
noticed the change. Clowbury’s indignant protests of 
innocence and his outbursts of passionate grief had alto- 
gether ceased. 

Mr. Bartram when he went abroad had bade his friend 
be of good cheer and hope for the best, but the solicitor 
had returned, and had been bound to admit that he had 
failed to throw any new light on the affair which would 
be advantageous to the prisoner. In fact, he had an un- 
easy idea that in hunting down the Italian, instead of 
benefiting he had rather damaged his friend’s case. 


TALtlS OF TO-hAY. 


29 

The authorities in London, after having* the facts of the 
case laid before them, had refused to authorize Moroni’s 
arrest upon such a slender basis of suspicion as Mr. 
Bartram and the detective were able to put forward. 

It would be too absurd to put the two men in the dock 
as “accomplices,” and equally absurd to charge two men 
with committing the same murder unknown to each other. 
The theory of the prosecution was that the husband was 
the murderer, and they were not going to weaken that 
theory by ordering the arrest of another man for the same 
crime, especially a man against whom there was not a 
particle of evidence that could be substantiated. 

Moroni was shrewd enough to suspect very soon that 
things were not going exactly as the detective wished, and 
then he became more reticent. 

When the decision of the authorities in London was 
received, Messrs. Bartram and Grimwade were at a loss 
what to do. The time was growing short, and the for- 
mer would have to return to London to take charge of 
his client’s interest there, and the detective was under 
orders to return to town also. After a long discussion, 
Mr. Bartram agreed that the best thing to do was to leave 
the Italian where he was, and return to town and try and 
get stronger evidence against him there. 

But this plan was entirely upset by the signor himself, 
who in some mysterious way succeeded in satisfying the 
claim of Mdlle. Fontenay, and inducing her to withdraw 
the charge against him. 

When the solicitor and detective left Nice they were 
somewhat startled to find that one of the travellers by the 
express was the signor himself. On the platform became 
up to them and raised his hat politely. “Gentlemen,” he 
said, “we are fellow-travellers. I am going to London. 
It grieves me that you have not taken me into custody 
for this murder, as now I must pay my fare myself, and 
it is an expensive journey,” 

This unexpected move on the part of the Italian 
caused George Clowbury’s solicitor to feel more uneasy 
on his client’s account. If the Italian was the guilty 
man, the last place he would be going to, now he 
knew that he had been suspected and inquiries made 
about him, would be London. “And if he is innocent,” 
Mr. Bartram said to himself, “I can’t for the life of me 


30 


TALES OF TO-DAT, 


see how that poor girl could have been killed by any one 
but her husband.” 

The detective shook his head. “I’m not going to give 
the case up as a bad job yet,” he said. 

“ What more can you do .?” said the solicitor. 

“Something which will be very useful to me in tracing 
Moroni’s movements on the morning of the crime. 

I am going to find the woman who was seen in the 
street at half-past six that morning by the constable.” 

‘ ‘ She has been advertised for already and without success.” 

“Yes, but we didn’t know who she was then. We do 
now. ” 

On the day before the trial, Mr. Bartram had a long 
interview with his client Everything had been done that 
could be done for the defence, but the solicitor was 
almost in despair. Clowbury persisted in his statement 
that he couldn’t tell where he lost the sword-stick on the 
journey ; all he could say was this, “ When he gathered 
his rugs and things together on arriving at Paris he 
missed it” One other statement which the prisoner 
made to him caused the solicitor’s uneasiness to be greater 
than ever. He had told his client of his suspicions of 
Moroni, and of all that he had done Both abroad and at 
home to try and fix the guilt on him ; and mentioning the 
woman who was said to have been in the street, he asked 
Clowbury if he noticed such a woman when he left the 
house. George Clowbury at once replied that he distinctly 
recollected seeing a woman in the street as he came out 
of the door. He didn’t notice her face, which was turned 
away from him. By her figure he should think she was 
young. She was on the opposite side of the road, and he 
didn’t pass her, as he walked away in the other direction 
to which she appeared to be going. 

This fresh piece of information filled the solicitor with 
terror. If this woman whom Grim wade was endeavoring 
to run down were to be found and put in the witness 
box, she would certainly be of no service to his client, 
for he admitted that it was he whom she saw come out, 
and supposing she described him as appearing agitated or 
anything of that sort, it would be about the last straw in 
the weight of evidence that would break down the back 
of his case. 


TALES OF TO-LAY, 


31 


It was therefore a great relief to the anxious lawyer 
when meeting Mr. Grimwade by appointment that even- 
ing, he learnt that in spite of every effort made, not the 
slightest clue had yet been found to the whereabouts of 
the missing Margherita. 

“George Clowbury, you stand indicted for that on the 
morning of the 4th of December last you did wilfully and 
of malice aforethought kill and slay Elizabeth Ann Clow- 
bury, your wife. Do you plead guilty or not guilty ? ” 

There was a silence in the court and every eye was 
turned towards the prisoner. He had aged considerably 
since the magisterial examination. His dark hair was 
now tinged with gray and his face was thin and pale. 

In a firm, clear voice the prisoner replied “Not guilty ! 

There was a moment’s pause, and then the counsel for 
the prosecution opened his case. As the people in court 
listened to the plain, unvarnished tale, it seemed to them 
that there could be no defence. The only task that the 
prosecution had was to account for the murderer going to 
Paris on his ordinary business immediately after the deed, 
when he must have known that directly the murder was 
discovered the continental train he travelled by would be 
watched by the police. 

This difficulty the counsel explained by suggesting that 
it was part of the prisoner’s pre-arranged scheme to escape 
suspicion. He left his home on the previous night, saying 
he was going to an hotel, and he crept back when he 
thought no one was likely to see him in the small hours. 
He accomplished the deed and left his house again secretly 
before dawn. But for his latchkey being found in the bed- 
room, it was the theory of the prosecution that George 
Clowbury would have set up an a/ibt. Commenting 
strongly on the fact of the missing sword-stick, the weapon 
with which the wound was probably inflicted, the counsel 
wound up an able speech by acknowledging that though 
the evidence was circumstantial it was frequently neces- 
sary in a secret murder of this description to rely upon 
that evidence, and he ended by assuring the jury that 
after they had heard the evidence which he should bring 
before them he feared it would be their painful duty to 
say that the unfortunate woman met with her death at the 
hands of her husband, the prisoner in the dock. 


3 ^ 


TALES OE TO-DAT. 


The police, the doctor, the servant, and other witnesses 
to certain facts were then called and sworn, and their 
evidence all supported the theory of the prosecution. 

Only one new piece of important evidence was elicited 
on the first day of the trial. 

“Call Mary Fulton,” said the counsel for the pro- 
secution. 

Mary Fulton was called, and a young woman who 
looked like a servant entered the box. 

The prisoner looked- at her, and an expression of sur- 
prise passed over his face. It was evident that he won- 
dered what on earth the girl was called to prove. 

The examination commenced. 

“What is your name .? ” 

“ Mary Fulton.” 

“You are chambermaid at the Hotel, Nottingham?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The counsel for the prosecution here drew from among 
his papers a letter which he handed to the witness. 

“ Look at that letter — do you recognize it? ” 

“Yes, sir. It is the letter which I found in Mr. Clow- 
bury's fireplace after he had left.” 

‘ ‘ After he had left when — give us the date. ” 

“It was the 3rd of December.” 

A juryman here interrupted, and asked how the witness 
fixed the date, and was informed by the counsel that the 
date of Mr. Clowbury’s leaving would be fixed by the 
books of the hotel. 

“At any rate,” resumed the counsel, addressing the 
witness, “you found this letter in the fireplace of Mr. 
Clowbury's bedroom after he had left the last time he 
stayed at the hotel, and that it was the 3rd of December ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Now what condition was the letter in when you 
found it?” 

‘ ‘ It was torn in half and scrumpled together — ifs been 
stuck together like this since.” 

“ Exactly; but when you found it it was torn in half 
and ‘ scrumpled ’ together, eh ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“When you found it what did you do with it?” 

“ I smoothed it out and put the two pieces together 
and read it.” 


TALES OF TO-DAT, 


33 


“Why?” 

“I can’t say why, sir, but I did.” 

“Feminine curiosity, eh? Exactly. Well, having 
read the letter, what did you do with it? ” 

“ I showed it to one of my fellow-servants.” 

“And then ” 

“Then, I put it away in my box as a sort of curiosity, 
and forgot all about it.” 

“Till when?” 

“ Till there was a talk about the murder. I didn’t like 
to tell the manageress I’d read the letter, because I 
thought I might be taken for a pryer, but one day my 
fellow-servant told of it, and the manageress came to me 
and asked me about it.” 

“ When was that ? ” 

“ A few days ago, sir.” 

“And the manageress told you to forward the letter 
with a statement to the Treasury ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

‘ ‘ And this is the letter ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Listen ; you’ve read it, so you can tell me if this is 
what you read.” 

The counsel took the letter and read it aloud, “Sir, — 
your wife is a wicked woman. She encourages an 
Italian man to come into your house many times you are 
away. Keep your eyes open or it will be very bad. 
Some day you go home and find her gone away with 
Italian man. 

“A Friend.” 

“That was what I read,” said the witness as soon as 
the barrister had finished. 

Several other witnesses were called with regard to this 
letter, among them the fellow-servant and the manageress 
of the hotel. 

The judge and the jury inspected the letter carefully, 
and so did the counsel for the defense, who handed it to 
Mr. Bartram. The latter looked at it and handed it back 
again ; but he drew out his notebook and commenced to 
write rapidly. He then tore the leaf out and gave it to 
his boy to take to Mr. Grimwade, who was in another 
part of the court. 

The writing was that of a woman, the wording and the 


34 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


style of the writing pointing to the fact that it was the 
production of a foreign woman. That was the general 
idea in court when the adjournment for luncheon took 
place and people were able to talk to each other. It was 
a very important letter, because it showed how grave was 
the charge against his wife which George Clowbury had 
in his mind when he arrived at home and commenced the 
quarrel described by the servant. 

When the proceedings were resumed after luncheon, 
various witnesses were called, and then the court ad^ 
journed, it being understood that Luigi “ Moroni ” would 
be the first witness called in the morning. 

Luigi Moroni, it was understood by the spectators in 
court, was the Italian hinted at in the letter. He was 
going to explain his relations with the lady, and the prose- 
cution was going to elicit from him that he had only just 
left the house when the jealous husband arrived home 
from Nottingham. 

Immediately alter the adjournment Mr. Bartram joined 
Mr. Grim wade. 

“You got my note.? ” said the former. 

“Yes, and I quite agree with you. That letter was 
written by Margherita.” 

“ No doubt of it.” 

“It’s bad for us,” exclaimed Bartram, gloomily; “it 
tends to prove that the motive of the crime was jealousy.” 

“ So it was,” replied the detective ; “ but it wasn’t the 
jealousy of the husband — it was the jealousy of the 
Italian.” 

“You still think so.? ” 

“Yes; my only terror is that you won’t be able to 
prove it.” 

About ten o’clock that evening the solicitor was sitting 
at home in his study, going over his papers and trying to 
forget the nervous apprehension for George Clowbury’s 
fate which filled his mind. 

But the effort was vain, and pushing the papers aside 
he lit a cigar, and leaning back in his arm-chair gave him- 
self up to the gloomy thoughtfulness which crept over 
him. 

He was disturbed by a knock at the door, and the ser- 
vant entered. 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


35 

“There’s a Mr. Grimwade in the hall, sir, and he says 
he must see you at once.” 

Mr. Grimwade had not stood on ceremony, but had fol- 
lowed on the servant’s heels. He stepped into the room 
at once. 

“Come along at once,” he said, excitedly. “There 
isn’t a moment to lose.” 

“ What’s happened.?” 

‘ ‘ The police were communicated with this afternoon. 
We’ve found Margherita.” 

The solicitor and the detective entered a hansom which 
was waiting at the door. Mr. Grimwade gave some 
directions to the man, who whipped up his horse and 
drove off at a rapid pace. 

A drive of about five minutes brought them to the door 
of a large building, and here the cab stopped and the 
two men alighted. The detective paid the man and dis- 
missed him. Then he knocked at the door, and a man 
in pauper uniform opened it. 

“ Why, this is a Workhouse,” exclaimed Mr. Bartram. 

“Yes. I’m not going to tell you anything. You shall 
learn all for yourself. ” 

Crossing the yard the two men were conducted to the 
master’s house, which stood away from the main build- 
ing. The master was expecting them, and they were 
admitted at once. 

In front of a comfortable fire in a large, handsomely 
furnished dining-room, sat the workhouse master and his 
wife, the matron. 

“This is Mr. Bartram, Clowbury’s solicitor,” said 

Grimwade. “Mr. Bartram, this is Mr. , the master 

of the workhouse, and Mrs. , his wife, the matron. 

Now, if you please, madam, you can tell my friend the 
whole story.” 

The lady — a portly, good-looking woman of about 
fifty, with a nice motherly look about her — bowed to Mr. 
Bartram, and commenced her narrative. 

• “On the evening of the 4th of December a young 
woman was brought to the workhouse by the police. A 
policeman passing by the canal which runs close to this 
house heard cries for help just as it was getting dark. 
Running down on to the towpath he saw a woman 
struggling in the water, He succeeded in getting her out, 


TALES OF TO-DA Y. 


36. 

and as she said she had fallen in accidentally lie didn’t 
think it was right to charge her with trying to commit 
suicide, and as she seemed very ill he thought it best to 
bring her here. She stated that she was a governess out 
of a'situation, and liable to fits, and that she must have 
been in a fit when she fell into the canal. The poor girl 
was very ill, and had injured herself, probably in falling 
on the towpath, for she had a cut across her face, and 
had evidently been bleeding very much. I saw her and 
had her wet things taken off and a bed prepared for her 
in the infirmary at once. 

“The next day she was very feverish and ill, and I 
asked her where her friends were. She stated that she 
was a foreigner and had no friends in London. She had been 
turned out of her lodgings and her boxes kept for rent, 
and having had nothing to eat for some time, that had 
made her weak and she thought that was how the fit came 
on. She begged me to let her stay in the workhouse 
until she was better, and I consented. 

“The poor girl was undoubtedly very ill and grew 
worse. I'he immersion in the cold water of the canal 
had had serious results, and the doctor told me that with- 
out the greatest care he was afraid she would get worse 
instead of better. 

“I was very sorry for the poor thing, for she seemed 
very ladylike and evidently had undergone some great 
trouble. She was very reticent as to her past life, but 
when she was well enough she liked me to come and sit 
beside her and talk to her. 

“About a fortnight ago she grew rapidly worse, and it 
was evident that she was slowly dying. Twice when she 
was very bad at night she sent the nurse for me, saying 
that she wanted to tell me something, but when I got to 
her bedside she apologized for disturbing me and said, 
‘Not now, not now: presently, presently.’ Yester- 
day, after visiting her, the doctor told me that she 
could not last many days, that she was really dying from 
exhaustion and the end might come at any time. As it 
was evident the poor girl had something on her mind, I 
thought it my duty to tell her plainly that all hope was 
over, and to try and induce her to prepare for death. 

“ ‘Yes, madame,’ she said, ‘ you are my good friend. 
You tell me the truth, I know that I am dying, that I 


Tales of to-day. 


37 

am a wicked sinner and must soon answer for my sins. 
Ah, madame, you do not know how wicked I have been ; 
if you did you would not sit by my bedside and smile at 
me and be kind to me as you are. You would shrink 
from me as from a devil.' 

“ ‘ Hush, hush, my dear,’ I said, ‘it is not I who have 
to judge you for your sins. He who judges will also 
forgive if we truly repent.’ 

“ ‘Ah, madame, I do repent. I would give the world 
to have not this sin upon my soul. Look at me, madame ; 
you think I am a poor unhappy girl. Ah, I am a devil, 
a wicked devil.’ 

“She sat up in the bed, and gripping my arm with her 
wasted burning hand she poured her confession into my 
ears. I was startled — terrified, but I listened to the 
end. 

“She told me that her real name was Margherita Pas- 
quati, that she was a Sicilian by birth, and was brought 
up to sing on the stage and at concerts. After a checkered 
career she came over to England through an Italian, 
to whom she paid a sum of money to procure her an 
engagement at one of the operas. The man took her 
money, and eventually induced her to live with him as 
his wife. She sang well and earned good money, which 
he spent. After an illness her voice left her, and then the 
man’s conduct changed and he neglected her, and at last 
left her, saying that it injured his prospects to be thought 
a married man. 

“She bore with it for a time, but she loved the man, 
and finding that he was paying attention to an English 
married lady, she watched him. She found out that he 
was trying to induce the lady to leave her husband and 
go abroad with him. Then she went to the man and 
threatened him, and wrote an anonymous letter to the 
husband. 

“ The Italian came to her because she threatened him, 
and they had a quarrel, and she swore he should never 
go away with the Englishwoman. He told her it was all 
over, that he was not going with the lady, but she still 
watched. One night she found he had packed all his 
things and was to leave by the train for abroad next morn- 
ing with the English lady. She sent him a letter saying 
she would kill him if he did. He came to see her after 


TAL^JS OF TO-DAY. 


he had read that letter and said she was a fool, and 
tried to make her believe it was not true. But she 
knew it was, so in the morning she went early^to watch 
the English lady’s house. She knew her husband was 
away, and she thought the lady would come out, and 
by following her she w'ould find out what station she 
went to to meet the Italian. Then she would go there 
and stab him with her dagger rather than let him go away 
with the Englishwoman who had taken her place. 

“ While she was watching, a man came out. It was 
dark, but she thought it was her lover. Before she could 
recover herself he had gone up the street. ‘Ah,’ she 
said, ‘he has stayed in the house this night. He has gone 
to the station; the Englishwoman is to join him there.’ 
d'hen she walked back past the lady’s door, and she noticed 
that it was ajar. The man in coming out had pulled it to, 
but the latch had not caught, and it had swung back a 
little. 

“‘Then,’ said the unhappy woman,’ the devil put a 
dreadful thought into my head. There was nobody 
about. I pushed the door softly open, stole in on tiptoe, 
and crept upstairs, clutching my dagger. I knew where 
the lady was, for many a night had I seen the light burn- 
ing in the room when I had watched to see if my lover 
came there. I pushed the door open softly.’ 

“ ‘The Englishwoman lay on the bed. She was very 
beautiful, her eyes were closed. She must just have fallen 
asleep after my lover had left her. Her beauty maddened 
me. “You shall never be his. You shall not take him 
from me ! ” I hissed in her ears.’ 

“ ‘ The woman started up and opened her eyes. She 
would have cried out but I plunged my dagger into her 
heart, and she fell back.’ 

“ ‘Then a great terror came over me. They do not 
understand revenge in your country as they do in the 
land I came from, and I knew it was murder I had done, 
and for murder they hang people. I crept down the 
stairs to the door. I opened it softly and looked out. 
The street was empty. I closed the door behind me, 
no living soul was in sight to see me, and it was not 
yet light, only the beginning of dawn. I felt I was safe, 
and so I walked rapidly away, never stopping till I found 
myself in the great green park. Then I sat down on a seat 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


39 


and either fainted or fell asleep, I know not which. When 1 
came to myself it was broad daylight, and I arose and 
walked on. But everywhere I could see that English- 
woman’s eyes looking into mine, and I could hear her 
crying “ Murder ! 

“ ‘I was afraid lest my look of terror should betray 
me, and I walked on and on ; I don’t know where 1 
walked, but it was always in the Park, away from the 
streets and the people. When the darkness came on I 
felt more terrified still. I dared not go back to the house 
where I had been lodging ; I was in debt there and had 
no money to pay and they had told me they would turn 
me out, and they would be the first to notice how strange 
I looked. They would think that I did not come back 
because they told me not to. Where could I sleep — 
where could I go to, as I was without betraying myself } 
I had still my dagger with me. It was bloody, and my 
dress was stained with her blood — a little — splashes of 
blood.’ 

“ ‘I was so terrified I drew out my dagger to kill my- 
self — then I was afraid to do it. I was by the canal — 
I looked at the water. That was an easier death and 
quicker. If I missed my heart I might be found alive 
and hanged after all. I did not think. I jumped into 
the water. Then I felt that I was going before God 
without repenting with blood on my hands. I screamed 
for help, I didn’t want to die. You know the rest. I 
was rescued, and told the story that got me brought here 
where I was safe — where nobody would stare at me. 
The dagger sank in the water and the blood you saw on 
me you thought was where I had bled from that cut on 
my face. Now you know me. I am a murderess. 
I — ’” 

The matron stopped in her narrative. There was a 
knock at the door. 

It was the head nurse, 

“Oh ma’am, she’s gone — that Italian girl. I was 
sitting watching her when all at once she started up and 
gave a scream. ‘Don’t look at me,’ she said, ‘don’t 
look at me, woman ! ’ Then she waved her hands as 
though to keep some dreadful thing off, and fell back 
dead ! ” 


40 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


The next morning the court assembled to proceed 
with the trial of George Clowbury for the murder of his 
wife, but it did not last long. There was a tremendous 
sensation in store for the audience. The dying deposition 
of the Italian girl, IMargherita, taken by a magistrate 
who had been sent for in hot haste by the matron as 
soon as she had heard the unhappy girl’s confession, 
was put in. 

And Moroni, knowing now that the girl was dead, 
made a clean breast of his share in the transaction. He 
had suspected Margherita from the first, and for these 
reasons. 

She had told him he should never go away with the 
Englishwoman, and had threatened that some dreadful 
thing should happen if he did. 

On the night previous to the murder he received a 
threatening letter from her saying that she knew he 
was going away with the Englishwoman in the morning, 
and warning him not to. In the morning, when the 
servant showed him the letter which had been covered 
up by the newspaper all night, he found it was from Mrs. 
Clowbury, refusing to go away with him. His first 
impulse was to rush off with this to his former mistress 
and show it to her, as he fully believed she might do him 
an injury. When he got to the place at which she lived 
he found that she was not at home. The servant then 
supposed she must have got up and gone out very early in 
the morning. Moroni guessed Margherita’s destination 
at once. She had gone to watch the Englishwoman’s 
house. He walked in that direction himself, and as he 
reached the top of the street he saw her coming hur- 
riedly away. There was a look in her face which ter- 
rifiecl him. He avoided her and returned home and 
went away by the ten o’clock train to the Continent. 
He heard of the murder the next day, and then that the 
husband had been arrested. He was not sure that it 
was Margherita, and it would have been cowardly of 
him to say anything to incriminate her. That was the 
business of the police, not his. He was anxious to keep 
out of the affair altogether. Now Margherita was dead 
it did not matter, and he could tell all he knew. 

George Clowbury, triumphantly acquitted received the 


tales of T 0-1) ay, 


41 


Congratulations of his friends, and much public sym- 
pathy, But the shock of his wife’s murder and the 
terrible suspense through which he had passed, had shat- 
tered his health. He was recommended to go far away 
from everything that could remind him of the past, and 
his employers, interesting themselves in his case, ob- 
tained for him a good appointment in Australia. There, 
amid new scenes and new associations, he is gradually 
recovering his health and strength, and is beginning to 
look back upon the time when he was tried for his life 
on a charge of killing his wife, as a nightmare that has 
vanished with the dawn of day. 


II. 

A TRIP TO THE DERBY. 

The Reverend Septimus Wells when the great ad- 
venture of his life happened to him was five-and-thirty, 
frank and simple as a boy, a pleasant-looking, sweet- 
tempered, country clergyman, who for the last ten years 
of his life had lived far away from the roar and riot of 
the modern Babylon in the quietest suburb of a quiet, 
provincial town. 

Septimus Wells, the youngest son of a poor parson in 
the West of England, had been adopted at the age of lo 
by an eccentric uncle, who offered to pay for the boy’s 
schooling and bring him up as a gentleman, on one con- 
dition, that he had entire control of his education. The 
bargain was struck, and Septimus lived with his uncle, 
who was almost a recluse, until the old gentleman died. 
At that time Septimus was 21. He had received an ex- 
cellent education, having had a resident tutor, and by his 
uncle’s wish, his studies had been arranged with a special 
view of his becoming a minister. When the uncle died 
it was found that he had left Septimus a small sum to 
complete his “ clerical training,” and fifty pounds a year. 
The remainder of his fortune he had left to the endow- 
ment of almshouses for aged and respectable tradesmen 
who had never married, one of the stipulations of the 


42 


TALES OF TO-DA Y. 


bequest being that under no circumstances whatever 
was a female to be admitted within the buildings. 

“Uncle John,” as he was familiarly called by his rel- 
atives and friends, had developed an antipathy to the 
fair sex, it was supposed, because a lady to whom he had 
been engaged for ten years, and who resided with her 
parents in Scotland, had at last run away from home 
with a grocer’s assistant who taught in the same Sunday 
school, and married him. 

Possibly she was tired of waiting for Uncle John, who 
came to Scotland for a few days about once in two years, 
“ paid his respects ” to the family and his lady-love, and 
went off again without hinting at a date for the long de- 
ferred wedding. Uncle John being extremely rich, the 
parents were loth to break the matter off, or to injure the 
prospects of it by precipitation, but the lady upset all 
calculation by going off at last with the grocer's assistant. 

It was immediately after this abrupt termination of his 
prolonged love affair, that Uncle John gave his cook and 
housemaid notice to quit, and commenced to lead the life 
of a recluse, having such domestic services as were re- 
quired performed by an old man and his son. 

These two men, Septimus, and the tutor engaged for 
him, formed the family at “The Grove,” as Uncle John’s 
secluded residence was called, and as the grounds were 
extensive, and “the family ” rarely went beyond them, 
it may easily be imagined that while his uncle lived, 
Septimus saw very little of the world, and arrived at 
man’s estate with a very vague idea of its trials and temp- 
tations, its snares, and its pitfalls. 

To many young men the life would have been unbear- 
able, but Septimus was of so amiable a nature, so easily 
pleased, and so readily influenced by a stronger will, 
that he accepted it without a murmur, and being fond 
of study and a bookworm into the bargain, expressed no 
desire for the pleasures of society. 

When his uncle died he was probably the most simple- 
minded young man to be found in the Three Kingdoms. 
He was no fool ; he was merely innocent, and without 
suspicion of his fellow-creatures. 

A little of the innocence was rubbed off when he had 
to leave “ The Grove” and qualify himself for the posi- 
tion of a clergyman, but quite enough remained to make 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


43 


him an easy prey for those who wished to take advantage 
of him in worldly matters ; and when at the age of 
twenty-five he was appointed curate of the Parish Church 
of Puddlecome-le-Marsh, a small place just on the confines 
of the civilization of Dorsetshire, an ordinary smart little 
London boy of ten could probably have boasted with 
truth that he had forgotten more of the wickedness of the 
world than the Reverend Septimus had at present learned. 

Soon after the good-looking, awkward, innocent young 
man was appointed to his curacy, a wealthy widow, of 
mature charms, named Higginbotham, fell in love with 
him. Mrs. Higginbotham had, it was rumored, been 
the late Mr. Higginbotham s cook, but she had finished 
up by being his wife, and inheriting the house, grounds, 
carriages, horses, pictures, plate, etc., which he left be- 
hind him, and also a fair share of the fortune which he 
had accumulated in a manufacturing business, from which 
he had retired to settle down in Dorsetshire. 

Mrs. Higginbotham, from the pew in Puddlecome 
church, surveyed the new curate, and saw in him an . 
eligible successor to the late Josiah H — , “ poor Mr. H.” 
as she invariably called him when a reference to him was 
necessary. She thought that she should like to be the 
clergyman’s wife, for a clergyman’s wife is a lady, and is 
received in the best society, and can hold her own with 
the county families. Moreover, she saw in the Rev. 
Septimus a No. 2 who would be easily managed and con- 
trolled, and would not want to make ducks and drakes 
of the cash which No. i had left behind. So Mrs. Higgin- 
botham came to Puddlecome Church, saw the Rev. 
Septimus, and conquered him. 

She commenced by inviting him to tea to meet some 
of her “ lady friends ” ; then she invited him to tea, and 
there were no lady friends : then she sent him little pres- 
ents to his lodgings, which were two rooms over the 
general shop kept by Mrs. Muggles ; then she took Mrs. 
Muggles, who was a widow, into her confidence, and the 
two widows proved too much for Septimus, for before he 
knew what he was doing, he blushed and shivered and 
trembled, and found that a casual remark about the 
weather made by Mrs. Higginbotham in the presence of 
Mrs. Muggles had been accepted by the former as an 
offer of marriage, and the latter had turned her head 


44 


TALES OE TO-DAY. 


away wiin the remark that they mustn’t mind her, as she 
was young herself once ; and that, thus encouraged, Mrs. 
Higginbotham had flung herself (she weighed i6 stone) 
upon his manly bosom, and had confessed with little 
hysterical sobs that she had loved him from the first day 
she ever saw him, and that she would make him a good, 
true little wife. 

The next day, before the Rev. Septimus was quite sure 
that he hadn’t dreamed the whole scene, he found that it 
was all over the place that he had proposed to Mrs. 
Higginbotham, and had been accepted. Mrs. Muggles 
had told all her customers, and her customers had told 
everybody else, and so nothing remained for Septimus 
but to submit to his fate, and let the widow name the 
happy day, which she did without any suggestion on his 
part to prompt her. 

Poor Septimus never attempted to struggle with his fate. 
He concluded that in taking tea with the widow he had, 
in his ignorance of conventionalities, made love to her, 
and having made love to her, he supposed he was bound 
as a clergyman and a gentleman not to shrink from the 
consequences. He felt that it would be a very unmanly 
and improper thing to place the lady in a false position by 
telling her and the rest of his congregation that it was all 
a mistake, and so he allowed himself to be led to the 
altar, and was really quite pained when he accidentally 
overheard a very pretty young lady remark to her friend 
that ‘‘it was a shocking thing for a young man like that 
to marry an old woman for her money.” 

When the blushing bride took Septimus for his honey- 
moon to London, the young curate was delighted and 
astonished at the novelty of the wonderful things he saw. 
His bride took him to the Crystal Palace, which he thought 
was a dream, and to Madame I'ussaud’s where he was 
quite overcome by the dreadful people he met in the cham- 
ber of horrors. And when he was taken to the Zoological 
Gardens and given a bag of buns and told that he might 
feed the animals, he felt that the climax of dissipation had 
been reached, and was not astonished when, having been 
invited by the keeper to take a ride on the elephant, his 
bride frowned slightl)'' and told him that she did not think 
such an amusement was quite in keeping with his position 
as a clergyman and a grown up married man. 


TALES OF TO-LAr. 


45 


At the big hotel to which his wife took him, Septimus 
lived in a world of wonders. The luxury and vastness of 
the public rooms astonished him, and he wandered about 
them open-mouthed, staring at the decorations and the 
painted ceilings, and quite overcome by the grandeur that 
surrounded him. 

In their private apartment the waiter in perpetual even- 
ing dress and the whitest and glossiest of shirt fronts filled 
him with admiration. He was a talkative waiter of doubt- 
ful nationality, who spoke five languages, and gossiped 
familiarly of all the capitals of Europe. The Rev. Septi- 
mus had the greatest difficulty to refraiji from calling him 
“sir,” and felt quite humble and abashed in the pres- 
ence of this travelled linguist, who had seen the Forum 
and Pompeii, had a cousin who kept a shop on the Rialto, 
and had lived himself as servant, to a real Baron who had 
a real castle on the Rhine. 

Once during the honeymoon the bride took her delighted 
bridegroom to a place of amusement. The drive through 
the lighted streets filled with people was a revelation to 
the Rev. Septimus, and when they alighted at a grand 
building, brilliant with gas jets, and went into a beautiful 
hall and sat on crimson velvet seats, and heard a number 
of black gentlemen with woolly hair sing strange songs 
and play strange instruments, and dance and make the 
most excruciatingly odd remarks to each other, the Curate 
of Puddlecome grew so excited and laughed so heartily 
that his head began to ache, and one joke made him keep 
on laughing long after it was said, and he might have gone 
on laughing at it till the end of the performance had not 
one of the black gentlemen suddenly begun to sing about 
a dear little brother of his who died, and to request the 
other black gentlemen to close the shutters in consequence. 
Then all the black gentlemen requested in chorus that the 
shutters might be closed because Willie was dead, and the 
Rev. Septimus was so carried away by the mournfulness 
of the catastrophe that he wept in sympathy, and was 
quite shocked when, in spite of Willie’s premature decease 
and the grief of the company, a black gentleman in the 
corner suddenly jumped up and hit one of the mourners a 
fearful blow on the head with his tambourine, and asked 
him a ridiculous and most inopportune question about his 
sister and his sister’s young man. 


46 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


When the entertainment was over and he was returning 
with his bride in a four-wheel cab to the hotel, the Rev. 
Septimus sat absorbed in thought. He was thinking of 
how much the world owed to that good man, Mr. Wilber- 
force, who had rescued these poor blacks from slavery and 
enabled them to come over to a land of freedom and sing 
of their dead little brothers and their dead sweethearts who 
were waiting for them at Heaven’s gate, to the kind Chris- 
tian friends who assembled nightly to sympathize with 
their sorrows and to share also in their homely if some- 
what eccentrically expressed joys. 

That short honeymoon in London was an epoch in the 
life of the Rev. Septimus Wells. It opened up a new world 
to him, and it gave him food for thought and cogitation for 
many a year after. 

He returned to Puddlecome and settled down into a 
mild and gentle curate 'again, and he became a meek and 
obedient husband, but treasured within his heart a haunt- 
ing idea that he had not thoroughly explored the great 
Metropolis, and that if ever he had an opportunity of doing 
so, alone, he would discover much that was at present 
quite beyond his powers of conjecture. 

Five calm and peaceful years passed away. He obeyed 
his wife, and her word was his law, and as when he did 
exactly as she ordered him she was fairly good-tempered, 
his married life was, on the whole, a happy one. True, 
she was a little exacting and a little impatient, and some- 
times when her “ nerves ’’were bad she talked rather loud- 
ly at him, but he supposed that was the usual thing in 
married life. One thing, however, did worry him a little, 
and that was the display of temper in which his wife in- 
dulged if he engaged in amiable conversation with any of 
the younger ladies of his flock. He couldn’t imagine why 
his wife should have such a strong objection to his dis- 
cussing the poor and their spiritual needs with the young 
ladies of his congregation who were most anxious to visit 
them and to obtain their pastor’s advice as to the best 
means of improving their minds and their social conduct. 

The first great shock which the Rev. Septimus had ad- 
ministered to his feelings was when one afternoon, hav- 
ing accompanied pretty IMiss Turner, the daughter of the- 
chemist, from the cottage of old Giles Slowburn, where he 
had found her reading the “Pilgrim’s Progress ’’to the old 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


47 


man, he passed his wife without noticing her. He was 
holding his umbrella over Miss Turner to shield her from 
the sun, and he was quite unaware that the lady who 
passed was his wife until he felt his arm violently gripped 
and he heard a harsh voice exclaim, “Well, Tm sure ; I’m 
not big enough to be seen, I suppose.” 

jNIiss Turner gave a little cry, and said, “Oh, Mrs. Wells, 
how you frightened me.” Then she gave a pleasant little 
nod, and said, “Don’t trouble to come any further, Mr. 
Wells, I shall walk faster than Mrs. Wells. Good after- 
noon. ” 

And then — well, Septimus was afraid at first that his wife 
must be suffering from the heat of the sun. He had heard 
that sunstrokes affect the brain, and nobody in their right 
senses could have said such ridiculous things as she did. 
She actually called Miss Turner a minx and accused him of 
flirting with her. It was so absurd that Septimus laughed 
at it, but his wife went on and grew so excited, that at last 
he began to feel nervous. Was it possible that in his 
ignorance of the world he really had committed an act of 
impropriety in holding his umbrella over Miss Turner. 
He felt that it must be so, as his wife was so angry about 
it, and he was very sorry, and assured her that he would 
be more circumspect in the future. 

From that day a change took place in Mr. Wells’ feel- 
ings towards his wife. He began to be afraid of her. 
There was no doubt that she was getting jealous of him. 
Jealous ! It was absurd, it was terrible ; but innocent 
as he was, he could not help seeing the facts of the 
case. 

It hurt him very much, and it preyed upon his mind. 
He lived now in constant dread of doing something inno- 
cently which might cause her to make another scene. In 
his desire to avoid giving her displeasure, he became per- 
fectly abject in his behavior. But unfortunately, as he be- 
came more humble, she became more domineering, until 
at last the poor fellow trembled in her presence, if he saw 
a frown upon her brow. 

It was while affairs were in this state that a matter in 
connection with Mrs. Wells’ property compelled her to go 
up to London and see her solicitors. It was the middle of 
May, and Septimus was very pleased at the idea of the 
journey, as he would be able to attend some of the delight- 


48 


TALES OF TO-BA Y. 


ful meetings at Exeter Hall, of which he had read so much 
in the clerical journals. Mrs. Wells decided at once to 
take her husband with her. She declared, in rather ill- 
chosen words, that she wasn’t going to leave him behind 
to “carry on.” Septimus swallowed the insult without a 
wry face, for it was sugar-coated with the idea of a sojourn 
in that wonderful London. 

The reverend gentleman and his wife, or rather, the wife 
and her reverend gentleman, duly arrived in London, but 
Septimus had no opportunity of investigating the mysteries 
of the Metropolis. His wife took him every day by the 
’bus to her solicitors, and left him on a chair in the clerk’s 
office with her umbrella and her handbag while she was 
closeted with her solicitor. Then she took him back again 
to their lodgings in Cecil street. Strand, and after tea she 
went to sleep in her easy chair and told him not to leave 
her, as she was out of sorts. So he spent his evenings 
turning over the leaves of the lodging-house books, which 
were six volumes of a magazine which ceased to exist in 
1836, the second volume of the transactions of the Houns- 
ditch Horticultural Society, and the Christmas Number of 
the Children’s Magazine. 

The Rev. Septimus endeavored to soothe his mind with 
this literature, but failed. He found his thoughts wander- 
ing away with the crowded thoroughfares and the lighted 
streets. In imagination he entered some of the halls of 
dazzling light and heard the black gentlemen singing of 
their dead little brothers and waiting for their sweet Belle 
Mahones at Heaven’s Gate, and he was only recalled to 
earth by a deep snore from the partner of his earthly pil- 
grimage, whose head had dropped down lower than usual, 
and who looked in imminent danger of an apoplectic 
seizure. 

But at last an unforeseen circumstance brought the 
country curate’s dream within reasonable distance of ful- 
filment. Mrs. Wells one morning received a letter from 
her solicitor saying that she must go personally to a town 
in the north in connection with the property that was in 
dispute. She bade Septimus prepare to accompany her, 
but he had a most important appointment with his bishop, 
and at last the good lady agreed to leave him behind in 
London, which she did with many admonitions as to his 
conduct. 


TALm OF TO-DAY. 


49 

Mrs. Wells left town on Monday, and she expected to 
be back on Thursday. On Tuesday afternoon Septimus 
saw his bishop, who was up for Exeter Hall, and then 
he was free — free, with London before him. On Tuesday 
evening he strolled about and admired the streets and 
studied the humors of the crowds in the great thorough- 
fares, and finished the evening at a cafe, where he played 
chess with a clerical friend. The friend told him that it 
was the eve of the Derby — that to-morrow was the great 
carnival of which so much was written. “You ought to see 
it once, my boy,” said the clerical friend, “ I always think 
that a clergyman appeals so much more strongly to his 
congregation when they see that he knows what he is 
talking about.” Septimus thought so too, and when 
Wednesday morning came, he had made up his mind that 
he would go incognito to the great carnival, that he might 
be the better able to warn his young friends against its 
snares and pitfalls. 

It was not without trepidation that he made his prep- 
arations for this daring excursion. He removed his white 
tie,, put on an unclerical lounge coat and a high hat, and 
made himself look as little like a clergyman as possible, 
and then he sallied forth. His motive was really excel- 
lent. He wished to see what this horse racing was like, 
as it was his duty so often to warn his congregation 
against it. He had made all necessary inquiries and 
soon found himself in a carriage on the Epsom line. 
Here an obliging gentleman performed some pretty tricks 
with three cards, and kept inviting Septimus to pick out 
the Jack, but though the corner was turned up and he 
felt quite sure he could have picked it out, he of course 
declined, and ventured to say he disapproved of gam- 
bling altogether. 

Arrived on the Downs, he was astonished at the tre- 
mendous concourse of people. He followed the crowd 
to the course and inquired of a policeman which was the 
best place to see everything from. He was directed to 
the Grand Stand, paid his money and entered. When 
the numbers of the horses went up, and the bookmakers 
began to shout, and the crowd began to rush forward to 
them with sovereigns and five pound notes held eagerly 
out, the Rev. Septimus began to understand this beset- 
ting national sin of betting. It grieved him ; it seemed 


50 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


to him that these people, in their eagerness to win, were 
giving play to the worst passions of human nature. He 
mentally composed a little sermon on the subject for 
future delivery ; but when the race for the Derby came, 
and the broad mass of color swept up the course, and the 
hats went off, and the huge crowd swayed to and fro in 
its excitement, and deafening shouts went up as the gal- 
lant horses raced madly past towards the winning post, 
the country curate was carried away by the scene, and 
for a moment he forgot its wickedness. 

Now, while the Derby was being run, there was a very 
nicely-dressed young gentleman standing by him. As 
the winner’s number went up he shouted “Hooray!” 
and informed the Rev. Septimus that he had won a hun- 
dred pounds. A man came up presently, and handed the 
young fellow a bundle of bank notes. “Ah,” said the 
young fellow pocketing them, “my luck’s in. I’ve won 
on every race. My friend gets the money on for me in 
the ring. He gets the winner at the last moment, and 
he never makes a mistake.” 

The Rev. Septimus ventured to improve the occasion. 
He reminded the young gentleman that he might not 
always win. 

“Oh, but my friend knows what he’s about,” was the 
reply. “ Would you like to come into the paddock and 
see the horses.? You’re a stranger here, I fancy. I can 
show you all the great owners.” 

The Rev. Septimus thought there could be no harm in 
seeing the horses and the famous Earls and Dukes to 
whom they belonged, so he went into the paddock with 
the polite young gentleman. 

There a man joined them in a great hurry. “ I say,” 
he said to the young gentleman, “I’m told the next race 
is a certainty for one. The owner’s running two ; he’s 
going to tell me which will win at the last moment. How 
much will you be on .? ” 

“Put me on fifty. Jack,” said the young gentleman, 
handing some bank notes to his friend. Then he turned 
to Septimus, and said, “ Now, if you want to win fifty or 
a hundred you should go into this. It’ll be a certainty. 
If you give my friend a tenner he’ll put it on for you with 
my money.” 

“Thank you,” replied the curate. “You are very kind, 


tales of to-day. 


51 

and I quite appreciate your kindness, but I never, under 
any circumstances, gamble.” 

The young gentleman and “ Jack ” looked hard at the 
curate, who in his mufti looked more like a country far- 
mer than a clergyman, and then they strolled away to- 
gether. 

After they had gone, the Rev. Septimus happened to 
look down, and lying at his feet he saw three or four bank 
notes, folded up into four, lying on the ground. 

“ Dear me,” he said, “that misguided young man has 
dropped some of his bank notes.” Septimus picked them 
up and undid them, and saw that they were for five 
pounds each. “ I must find him and return them to him,” 
he said to himself, so he put the notes in his waistcoat 
pocket and went back into the Grand Stand to look for 
their owner. 

Being thirsty, he went into the refreshment room and 
asked for a bottle of lemonade. He put down a sover- 
eign. 

“ Short of silver,” said the barman. “Have you noth- 
ing less ? ” 

Septimus had not. 

A gentleman standing by at once said, “I can give you 
change for a sovereign, sir ? ” 

“Thank you,” said Septimus. 

The gentleman put a shilling down for the barman to 
take for the lemonade, and then handed the curate seven 
half-crowns and eighteen-pence. 

The Rev. Septimus having slaked his thirst, returned to 
the Stand to look for the owner of the bank notes. 

All of a sudden he found himself in the thick of a gesti- 
culating mob. A gentleman had lost his gold watch. 
The police made a dash at a young fellow, who rushed 
past Septimus and disappeared in the crowd. 

“ Here ! ” exclaimed a man, coming forward and taking 
hold of Septimus. “ I saw you, my friend, out you come.” 

“What do you mean ? ” exclaimed Septimus. “What 
have I done ? ” 

“We’ll soon show you,” said the detective, for that was 
what the man was. “ I saw your pal pass that watch to 
you. Here, Jack, hold him while I turn him over.” 

To his horror the reverend gentleman found himself 
firmly held by two policemen, while the detective, thrusting 


52 


TALJilS OF TO-DAY. 


his hand into the side pocket of the clergyman’s lounge 
coat, produced a gold watch. 

The Rev. Septimus was horrified. While he was being 
led off to the lock-up on the course, he could hardly find 
words to explain that it was a terrilVe mistake. 

As soon as he could frame a sentence he declared that 
he was a clergyman, and quite innocent of such a dread- 
ful action. 

“Oh, yes, you’re a clergyman, 3^011 look it. What’s 
you’re name.? The Rev. Artful Dodger, ain’t it.? I’m 
surprised at your reverence ! You’ve got another gent’s 
gold watch on you. In this here pocket are seven bad 
half-crowns. Wait a minute, let’s feel in that waistcoat. 
Yes, I thought so, and here we have four Bank of En- 
graving notes. Oh, you beauty, you’ll be Bishop o’ Lon- 
don before you die if you go on like this.” 

The poor curate of Puddlecome was overwhelmed. 
He could hardly believe his eyes as the watch, the bad 
money, and the sham bank notes were handed to the In- 
spector. 

“I am the victim of a terrible series of misfortunes,” 
he exclaimed. “ I took the change of a gentleman, and 
the notes I picked up in the paddock. 

“All right,” said the Inspector. “You can tell that to 
the magistrate. Take him away.” 

The Rev. Septimus was horrified wnen he learned that 
he was to be locked up all night and taken before a magis- 
trate the next day, as the case was not one to be disposed 
of in the offhand racecourse style. He declared that he was 
a clergyman, but when asked for his name and address, 
he hesitated to give it. He thought of the scandal. It 
might get into the papers. He felt that in coming to the 
Derby he had done a most unclerical act, and, oh ! terri- 
ble thought, what would his wife say.? 

At last he made up his mind that he would say nothing 
to the police, but write a note and get it sent to a friend 
of his in London, who would come down and identify 
him, and explain to the authorities that he was a respect- 
able man. He got the Inspector to promise to send the 
note off. He wrote it and addressed it, made a mistake 
in the address, and was then locked up. The Inspector 
took down a directory and found that no such person 
lived at the address given. 


TALES OF TO-DA Y. 


53 


“All right, my beauty, he said to himself, “that’s 
your game, is it? ” and he dismissed the clerical impostor 
from his mind. 

That night the Rev. Septimus spent in the lock-up a 
prey to the most terrible suspsuee. Why had he come 
to this wicked place ? He ought to have known better. 
What would his wife say if she arrived home on the mor' 
row before he did and found he had been out all night? 
She was to be back on Thursday. The idea so filled him 
with horror that he kicked at the cell door and shouted 
for somebody to come. He would give his real name 
and address ; he must be set at liberty. 

All that his kicks and shouts did was to bring a sergeant 
to the cell, who informed him that if he didn’t hold his 
row he’d get something he wouldn’t care for. 

Over that awful night and the dawn of the next day let 
us draw a merciful veil. When, on the morrow, the Rev, 
Septimus was taken before a magistrate, he wrote a few 
words on a piece of paper to explain his dreadful situa- 
tion. The magistrate looked at the prisoner, and sent 
for the Inspector, and they conversed together in an 
undertone. 

“ Have you any proof that you are the person you say 
you are ? ” asked the magistrate. 

The prisoner reflected. Suddenly he remembered that 
his cuffs and collars were marked with his name in full. 
He took his cuffs off and handed them to the magis- 
trate. 

“ Why didn’t you show the inspector before ? ” said the 
magistrate. 

“I didn't think of it, your worship. I was too hor- 
rified at my awful position.” 

The magistrate, who was a man of sense and discern- 
ment began to see that the unhappy clergyman had been 
a victim of designing rascals. His story was quite plaus- 
ible, and he was evidently a man of culture and educa- 
tion. His manners were certainly not those of the swell 
mob, and after a little hesitation the magistrate discharged 
him. 

The Rev. Septimus breathed again. He had escaped 
without giving his real name to any one but the magis- 
trate, so it would not be in the papers. He was saved. 
The instant he left the court he made for the railway 


54 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


station, caught a train, and arrived at his lodgings at 
about three in the afternoon, hoping and praying that his 
wife had not returned. 

He knocked at the door. It was opened by a maid 
servant who grinned a terrible grin, and before he could 
ask if his wife had come back, that lady appeared in the 
passage. 

Her bonnet was on, her face was red. She had but 
that moment returned, but in that moment she had heard 
that her husband had been absent since the previous 
morning. 

As the infuriated lady rushed at him to smother him with 
reproaches, and to demand an instant explanation, the 
Rev. Septimus caught sight of himself in the looking-glass 
and nearly fainted. A more dissipated, out-all-night, 
woe-begone clergyman it was impossible to imagine. 

“ So, you base man, so, you wicked wretch ! ” howled 
his wife, almost purple with passion, “These are your 
going’s-on, are they ? The moment my back was turned, 
too. I’ll have a divorce. I’ll inform your bishop. Oh, 
you wicked, deceitful, cruel, abandoned man ! ” 

Thereupon the good woman cast herself heavily into 
the armchair, and rocked herself to and fro in a storm of 
hysterical grief. 

“My dear,” stammered Septimus, “I assume you’ll 
allow me to explain ” 

“ Explain ! It doesn’t want any explanation. I can 
see it all. Don’t tell me any lies — that’ll only make it 
worse.” 

“Really, my dear,” exclaimed Septimus, “you forget 
yourself. I am not in the habit of telling lies.” 

There was a terrible ten minutes, but at last it all came 
out. Septimus confessed to the Derby, but he hoped he 
was sufficiently punished. After a deal of violent lan- 
guage, and showers of tears, Mrs. Septimus at last con- 
sented to accept his explanation tern., but the next 
day, taking her husband with her, she went to Epsom 
and found the police-station and an official, and de- 
manded to know if the man she had with her had been 
charged on the previous day at that court, and if he had 
been locked up in the cells on the preceding evening. 

When the official recognized the Rev. Septimus and 
informed the lady that his story was true, she was com- 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


55 

pelled to be satisfied, but the next morning she left 
London and took Septimus home, and she declares that she 
will never trust him out of her sight again. The reverend 
gentleman has not yet delivered the sermon on gambling 
which he mentally composed on the Grand Stand at 
Epsom. It is an exceedingly sore point with him. It is 
probable that not until the time comes for him to be put 
under the turf will he reveal his dreadful adventure upon 
it. Once or twice, when the May meetings are on, he 
has hinted that his wife might accompany him to town 
for a couple of days, but the good lady doesn’t see it. 
She merely ffxes him with her eye, glares at him, and 
tossing her head exclaims, “Oh yes, I daresay you’d like 
it, wouldn’t you } I suppose you want to take another 
trip to the Derby. 

Then Septimus sighs and buries his head in his Sun- 
day sermon again, and thinks that perhaps after all he is 
safer at Puddlecome, for the mysteries of London are not 
to be explored with impunity. 


III. 

THE EARL’S WIFE. 

“ Silence ! Order ! Turn them out ! ” 

The chairman of the Royal Varieties Music Hall rapped 
his hammer on the table and glanced imploringly at a 
private box which was just over the stage. The comic 
singer who was yelling a popular song at the top of his 
voice came forward and glared in the same direction, and 
the audience, fairly roused to indignation by the con- 
stant interruptions to the performance which had pro- 
ceeded from this particular box for the last half hour, 
hissed and groaned and shouted until at last the uproar 
became so terrific that the manager felt that something 
must be done to alter the situation or a riot would be the 
result. 

Making his way to the private box, towards which 
every eye in the building was now directed, the manager 
gave a timid little knock at the door and then entered 
hesitatingly, hat in hand, and exclaimed almost apolo- 


TALES OF TO-LAT, 


56 

getically, “Really, my lord, I must ask your lordship 
not to irritate the audience. I’m very sorry, but they 
don’t like it, and I’m sure your lordship wouldn’t do any- 
thing to injure us in our business.” 

His lordship, who when the manager entered was 
leaning out of his box and making defiant and derisive 
grimaces at the howling, gesticulating mob beneath him, 
drew his head in, turned quickly round, and with a good- 
humored grin replied, “All right, old man. Keep your 
hair on. If there’s any damage I’ll pay for it. Come and 
have a drink ! ” 

“No, thank you, my lord, not now. If you’ll sit back 
in the box, perhaps the audience will let the business 
go on.” 

The young fellow addressed as “his lordship,” turning 
to his companions, three men considerably older than 
himself, said, “Come along, boys; old Smithers isn’t a 
bad sort, and I’ve had enough of it. Let’s go. ” 

A minute afterwards the box was empty, and the au- 
dience, believing that their demand had been complied 
with, and that the “swells” had been ejected, gave aloud 
cheer, and then settled down to the peaceful enjoyment 
of the interrupted programme. 

Old William, the stall waiter, who had suspended the 
operation of opening a bottle of seltzer to watch the result 
of the managerial interview, jerked his head as soon as 
the “ incident ” was over, and muttered half to himself, 
half to the customer he was serving, “He ts a hot ’un, 
and no mistake.” 

‘ ‘ Who is he ? ” said the customer. 

“ Don’t you know him ? ” replied old William ; “ why 
I thought everybody knew him. That’s the Hurl of Dash- 
ton. You’ve heard of him, ain’t you ? ” 

The customer replied that he had. There were very 
few people who had not ; for the young Earl who had 
only lately succeeded to the title had contrived to make 
himself notorious in a remarkably short space of time. 
The society papers were constantly paragraphing his 
“ eccentricities and he was at once the delight and the 
terror of those places of public amusement which are the 
favorite haunts of the “fast” youth of the day. He was 
a delight because he scattered his money right and left 
with a lavish hand, and he was a terror, because when 


TALES OF TO'DAY. 


57 


under the influence of ‘‘refreshment,” he conceived and 
executed certain “ sprees ” and “larks” which generally 
ended in setting the place in an uproar. 

Young Lord Dashton was, of course, not without his 
apologists. His youth and high spirits were urged as ex- 
tenuating circumstances, and it was pointed out that for 
much of his ill-regulated conduct his early training was 
responsible. The late Earl and Countess had not been 
happy in their married life. The Countess had gone her 
way and the Earl had gone his, and their only son had 
been left to the care of strangers and to the companion- 
ship of grooms and servants. 

The Countess died when her son was little more than a 
child, and the boy had grown up without one single good 
influence to shape his character. On the death of his 
father he found himself in the possession of a historic 
title, vast estates, and a magnificent income. 

He had made no good acquaintances, and the bad ones 
naturally came about him and toadied to him and en- 
couraged him in his rowdy recklessness. They applauded 
his maddest freaks, and they led him to believe that in 
outraging every law of social decorum he was showing 
the world what a fine, manly, independent spirit he 
had. 

On the night that Lord Dashton left the Music Hall “to 
oblige the manager,” he proceeded with his friends, Tom 
Major, Bill Joyce, and Captain Kilby, to the latter’s cham- 
bers, and there spent the remainder of the evening over 
a quiet game at cards, his lordship before the party broke 
up, “losing just a couple of hundred ;” nothing to him 
but very acceptable to the other gentlemen who had no 
“fixed income.” Tom Major and Bill Joyce were not 
gentlemen, but they were good sportsmen and good 
fellows and that was sufficient for the Earl. Captain 
Kilby was gentleman — that is to say, his father was a gen- 
telman, and the Captain had held Her Majesty’s commis- 
sion. But the Captain had been “unfortunate,” I believe 
that is the correct term, and at the age of eight and thirty 
was glad to know a man with money, especially if that 
man was young and generous and didn’t mind now and 
then having a run of bad luck at the card table. 

On the night of the music hall affair, after his lordship 
had gone home, Mr. Joyce and Mr. Major stayed to smoke 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


58 

a pipe with the Captain, and over tne pipes the eonversa- 
tion beeame exeeedingly interesting. 

“Well, Bill,” said the Captain to Mr. Joyee, “what 
does your sister say } ” 

“She don’t say mueh,” replied Mr. Joyee, “exeept that 
she doesn’t think he really eares for her. ” 

“ Do you ” 

“Well, he eertainly appears to be dead gone on Loo, 
but with a ehap like him that don’t mean anything.” 

“ But it does, my dear fellow,” exelaimed the Captain, 
“ it means a good deal. He told me this morning that 
if it wasn’t that his relations would make sueh a thunder- 
ing fuss about it, there’s no girl in the world he’d sooner 
marry than Loo Joyce. You forget. Bill, what a pretty 
girl your sister is.” 

“Yes, I know,” replied Joyce, his hard face relaxing 
for a moment, “and she’s as good as she is pretty. If I’d 
known as much as I do now I’d never have let Dashton 
see her. Poor Loo ! she’s stuck to me tlirough thick and 
thin, and never had a word of reproach for me though I’ve 
been a bad lot ever since I chucked the office and took to 
the ‘game.’” 

“Loo’s a trump ! ” exclaimed Mr. Major, “and no mis- 
take about that.” 

“She’s been a good, hardworking, brave little woman 
ever since the dad died and we were left to shift for our- 
selves. And when I’ve been out of luck she’s known it, 
and many a time I know she’s gone without things she 
wanted and given me the money she’d had to work jolly 
hard to get, and when her trouble came she bore it like a 
Briton. I tell you, fellows, it goes against the grain with 
me to be mixing her up with our game.” 

“ Confound it all, old fellow,” exclaimed the Captain, 
“I can’t see where the harm comes in as far as Loo’s 
concerned. All things considered, it’s the best thing she 
could do.” 

Bill Joyce shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t expect 
you to see it as I do,” he said. 

“But Dashton isn’t a bad-hearted fellow, Bill,” said 
the Captain. “At any rate the chance is too good to be 
missed. It’ll be a good thing for us all if we work it 
properly, and I’m certain if we only let him see her now 
and then, and then keep her away from him a bit, and 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


59 


pretend that he’s compromising her with a respectable 
young man who wants to marry her, and all that sort of 
thing, he’ll be hooked beyond wriggling off again. Come, 
my lad, isn’t it worth trying for? It all rests with you 
now. 

“ No, it doesn’t, it rests with Loo. Don’t talk any more 
about it to-night. I’ll think it over. I’m tired now. 
Come on, Tom, you’re going my way. Good night, 
Kilby.” 

A month after the interview in Captain Kilby’s room, 
Louie Joyce, a tall, fine, handsome girl of two-and-twenty, 
sat at breakfast with her brother. 

Louie had been crying, and her beautiful blue eyes 
were still suffused with tears. 

“Come, Loo,” said her brother, “you mustn’t break 
down now. I’m sure that everything will be for the best. ” 

“ I wish I thought so. Will,” replied his sister, “ but I 
am not blind. You have been anxious about this mar- 
riage because you believed it would give me position and 
wealth, but Captain Kilby, Tom Major, and their set must 
have some other motive. I feel as if I were part of some 
wicked plot, as if I were going to do some terrible in- 
jury to poor Hugh in marrying him. And then you won’t 
let me tell him my secret either. I feel like an accom- 
plice in a fraud, and that is not a pleasant feeling to get 
married with. Will.” 

“ What a romantic little puss you are,” exclaimed Will 
Joyce, with a forced laugh. “ If you had kept on the 
stage you would have been able to play the romantic 
heroine beautifully in time.” 

“ I wish I had kept on the stage until I had made a 
position as an actress. I should feel less scruple in 
marrying Hugh then. I know what people will say when 
the news gets about — that Hugh has been trapped into a 
marriage by a designing chorus girl, and everybody will 
look upon me as an artful, designing minx, and if it ever 
comes out that — ” 

“Nonsense! A title covers a multitude of sins, and 
when you are a countess, people will soon forget what 
you were previously. And as to the other business, as 
nobody but Kilby and Major know about it, that’s not 
likely to crop up.” 

Oh, I’m not ashamed of what I’ve been, Will, I’ve 


6o 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


earned my living- honestly and worked hard enough for 
it, God knows, but I feel that in marrying me, Hugh is 
injuring himself and his prospects. His people will hate 
me, of course, and the poor boy will be told every day 
that he’s made a fool of himself. ” 

“That’s sure to be, my dear. It would have been the 
same if you had been a second Mrs. Siddons. But you’ll 
make Dashton a good little wife, and there’ll be plenty of 
Earls who will wish that they had as pretty and amiable 
a little Countess to take about with them as Dashton will 
have. Come, no more tears, there’s a dear. You’ve got 
an hour to get ready. The carriage will be here at eleven, 
remember. Come, look your best, and God bless you. 
I must go and dress myself.” 

An hour later Mr. Joyce and his sister stepped into a 
brougham which was waiting for them at the hotel door, 
and drove to a quiet little church in the neighborhood. 

No one to have seen Louie would have suspected that 
it was her bridal morn. She was dressed in a neat little 
travelling costume, and wore a bonnet and veil, a veil 
which was thick enough to partly conceal her features. 

At the church there was no sign of anything out of the 
common. The fact that a wedding was about to take 
place had been kept a profound secret by everybody con- 
cerned. The verger and the pew opener had been paid 
to keep their knowledge strictly to themselves. At the 
church door young Lord Dashton was waiting with Cap- 
tain Kilby, his best man, and Tom Major, and the fair 
sex was represented by Lottie Foster, Louie’s bosom 
friend at the theatre, and her cousin, Katie Joyce, who 
was under governess at a small girls’ school at Clapham, 
and had obtained a day’s holiday to be present. 

The Earl and his “ pals ” had suggested a registry of- 
fice for the ceremony, but Louie had insisted upon a church 
wedding, and the other side had been obliged to give way. 

A flush of pride passed over the young peer’s face as 
he stood beside Louie at the altar. She was a girl any 
fellow might be proud to call his wife, he thought to him- 
self, and felt beautifully defiant with regard to the adverse 
criticism which society might pass upon his choice of a 
countess. 

The ceremony was performed by an elderly clergyman 
in a perfectly, matter of fact way. Louie couldn’t help 


Tales of to-lay. 


6i 


thinking once or twice how terribly he missed all the best 
points, but she gave her answers firmly and clearly. When 
it was all over the Earl gave his young wife a hearty kiss, 
and that brought the tears to her eyes, but she brushed 
them away in a minute and lowered her veil hurriedly. 
Then the wedding party went into the vestry, the usual 
formalities were concluded, and the whole party drove to 
the Charing Cross Hotel, where a quiet little breakfast was 
served. Katie Joyce, the governess, didn’t quite under- 
stand all that the Captain and Lottie Foster talked about, 
and she could only be persuaded to take just one glass of 
champagne, and that was to drink “ Long life and happi- 
ness to the bride and bridegroom.” She thought it very 
wonderful for her pretty cousin to be a Countess, and she 
wondered what the butchers and bakers’ daughters at the 
Clapham school would think of her if they knew she was 
own cousin to a Peeress. Lottie Foster was the merriest 
of the party, and chaffed Captain Kilby unmercifully/ 
making the young Earl laugh heartily at her witty sallies. 
Louie and Will were very quiet. Once, when they both 
sat silent and absorbed, their eyes suddenly met. The 
same thought was in the minds of each, and both their 
faces reddened. Will’s with a look full of guilt, and Louie’s 
with a flush of shame. For a moment the man bitterly 
regretted the ignoble comedy in which he had compelled 
his sister to take part. But it was too late to draw back 
now ; the deed was done and the comedy must go on. 
Fortunate indeed for all parties concerned would it be if 
it remained a comedy to the end, and did not in its later 
acts trench upon the domain of tragedy. 

A year had elapsed since the marriage of the Earl of 
Dashton with the pretty chorus girl. Society had been 
startled at first by the news, and the young bride was the 
object of considerable attention whenever she appeared 
in public with her husband. The Earl’s relatives Avere 
furious, and naturally put the young lady down as a 
designing creature, who had played her cards well. 

But if Louie Joyce had played her cards well, the 
Countess of Dashton played them still better. She bore 
her new honors modestly but gracefully, and the severest 
female critics were bound at last to admit that the chorus 
girl knew how to behave herself, and that she had a good 


62 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


deal more natural dignity than her husband. A woman 
can always more readily adapt herself to improved circum- 
stances than a man. There is a certain amount of tact 
in the feminine composition which is generally conspicu- 
ous by its absence in the masculine. A butler may marry 
a lady’s maid and rise to wealth and position. The butler 
will be a butler to the end of the chapter, the lady's maid 
will become so far a lady that she will make her new 
circle of friends and acquaintances forget that she was 
ever a servant. 

But though Louie held her own bravely and at last 
stemmed the tide of hostile criticism, she was unable to 
completely destroy the evil influences which surrounded 
her husband. His constant companions and associates 
were still the set of adventurers and sharps who toadied 
to him and preyed upon him in his bachelor days. 

Captain Kilby and Tom Major were constantly his 
guests when the Earl was at his country seat, and in town 
they were his inseparables. Louie’s brother was one of 
the party occasionally,- but of late they had seen nothing 
of him. He told his sister that he was going abroad with 
a young fellow who wanted a travelling companion ; but 
something in his manner when he came to say good-bye 
made the Countess uneasy. She had an undefined fore- 
boding that something was going to happen — the some- 
thing that she had always dreaded, and that this was why 
Will was going to get out of the way. 

Louie knew well enough when she married the 
fast and foolish young nobleman that Kilby and 
Major and her brother had a motive of their own in pro- 
moting the match. Her brother’s friends were not the 
men to go out of their way to secure good fortune for 
other people without they also shared in it themselves, 
and in this instance she felt confident that they had played 
for a big stake. 

But what was it ? Money they had had out of the Earl 
while he was single — not so much perhaps as they expected, 
for his lordship was no fool, and it was his boast that 
if he hadn’t been a wealthy man he would have made a very 
good “ sharp ’ himself. Even as it was he was credited 
with having been on one or two occasions mixed up 
in transactions on the turf and at the card table that were 
of a doubtful character. There are some men who if they 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


63 

were millionaires, would prefer a hundred pounds made 
“ on the cross ” to a thousand earned “ on the square, ” 
and it was whispered that the young Earl Dashton had al- 
ready shown that he had the instincts of the blackleg, and 
that those instincts only wanted a favorable opportunity 
to develop themselves. 

The gang of good-for-nothings who had fastened them- 
selves on to the young nobleman when he came into his 
vast fortune, with the intention of — in the elegant lan- 
guage of the fraternity — “cutting him up,” soon found 
that they had a harder task than they had bargained for. 
His lordship was free-handed with his money, and spent 
it bravely, but he didn’t lend the large sums that were re- 
quired for “a few weeks.” Now and then his lordship 
would lose a hundred or two at a friendly game, but he 
let it be seen plainly that he was merely obliging his friends, 
and that it wouldn’t do for them to treat him as a flat too 
often. On his marriage with Louie Joyce he did what he 
had agreed to : he paid Will Joyce’s debts, which, accord- 
ing to that young gentleman’s own showing, amounted to 
£6,000, but he gave Will to understand that he mustn’t 
presume upon the relationship to ask for any further 
assistance. 

It is perhaps needless to say that of this nice little 
“ bit ” of ready money the Captain and Mr. Major had 
their share. These two gentlemen had assisted Will all 
along in the marriage scheme, and it had been agreed 
from the commencement that they were to share in the 
profits of the transaction. 

Louie Joyce was perfectly well aware of the sum which 
her brother was to receive, and she guessed that his as- 
sociates would share.it with him. She had a faint hope 
that perhaps the sum would satisfy them, but knowing 
something of their character, she could hardly bring her- 
self, to believe it. 

A year, however, had gone by, and, so far as she knew, 
no further attempts had been made to reap any further ad- 
vantage. She had dreaded that some proposition would 
be made to her ; that she would be asked to further the 
schemes of the conspirators by betraying her husband in- 
to their hands. She had determined from the first that she 
would do no such thing, but that at all risks, if she found 
her husband was being attacked through her, she would 


TALES OF TO-DAT. 


64 

inform him of his danger. She had persuaded herself 
when she married Dashton that she honestly loved him, 
and as time went on, and she found out her husband's 
good qualities, love really did come. It was the one 
great hope of her life that her influence would at last 
wean him from old associations, and that he would show 
the world that he had sown his wild oats, and was going 
to become worthy of his rank and wealth. She knew that 
underneath much that was evil in his nature there was 
much that was good, that, with different training and with 
better surroundings he might have been a better man. 

One thing, however, was still a great grief to the girl, 
and that was that at times, when he. got among the fast 
set who still clung about him, he would let himself be per- 
suaded to drink to excess. The first time that her husband 
came home talking incoherently, the poor girl was so ter- 
rified that she couldn’t stop in the room where he was, but 
ran and locked herself in her boudoir. Her terror of 
drunkenness had grown up with her from her childhood. 
Her father, a scamp of ’a fellow, who broke her mother’s 
heart and lived by promoting bubble companies and 
other forms of genteel swindling had died of delirium ire- 
mens, and Louie had been, as a child, a frequent witness 
of the paroxysms of that awful disease. Since then the 
sight of a drunken man or woman had always terrified 
her. 

One morning, after her husband had come home con- 
siderably the worse for his evening’s amusement. Lady 
Dashton sat at breakfast, alone, in her own little room. 
His lordship was still sleeping off the effects of his last 
night’s indulgence. 

There were several letters for her ladyship, letters of 
the ordinary kind, which she opened and threw aside after 
glancing at their contents. But there was one which she 
opened unconsciously and began to read mechanically, 
but which as she read on, sent the hot blood to her 
cheeks with a sudden rush, only to retreat from them 
again as suddenly, and leave her face pale with the ashen 
hue of death. 

She read the letter to the end, and then with a low 
moan let it slip from her hand on to the floor. 

At that moment Partridge, her ladyship’s confidential 
maid, came into the room. She was just in time to save 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 65 

her mistress, who was falling from her seat in a dead 
faint. 

“Oh, my lady,” exclaimed Partridge, rushing towards 
and catching the swooning Countess in her arms, “What 
is the matter.? Speak, my lady, you are ill.” 

Partridge loosened her mistress’s dress, and taking 
the vinegar cruet put some vinegar on her head and 
lips. 

“You are not well, my lady,” she said. “ Won’t you 
lie down a little ? Come, my lady, take my arm. That’s 
it. Lie on the sofa a little until you feel stronger.” 

The Countess obeyed her maid almost as in a dream. 
For a moment or two she found herself wondering what 
had happened. Then everything came back to her and 
she cast a terrified glance towards the breakfast table. 

“Partridge — I — I — left a letter. Give me my letters 
— from the table, please.” 

“Yes, my lady,” said Partridge, quickly gathering the 
letters together that lay on the table, and handing these to 
her mistress. 

Lady Dashton saw in a moment that the letter she was 
anxious about was not among them. 

“ There are some more there. Partridge. I — I — let 
me look myself,” she gasped, trying to rise from the 
sofa. 

But Partridge prevented her. 

“No, no, my lady, don’t get up. See, there’s a letter 
which has fallen on the ground. Perhaps that is it. I 
didn’t see it before.’’ 

Partridge stooped and picked up the letter from the 
hearthrug and handed it to her mistress. 

“Thank God,” murmured Lady Dashton to herself as 
she clasped the letter in her trembling hand, “I was 
afraid she had found it and read it.” Then she added 
aloud, “You can go now. Partridge; Leave me for a 
little while. I shall be better directly. I’ll ring if I want 
you.” 

As soon .as the door was closed the trembling Countess 
raised herself on the sofa, and with an effort smoothed out 
the letter she had crushed in her hand, and read it again 
to make sure that it was a real letter, and not some horri- 
ble nightmare which was haunting her. 

And this was what she read ; 


66 


tal.es of to-day. 


‘‘The Midland Hotel, London. 

“ Dear Loo, — 

“ I arrived in London from the Continent this morn- 
ing. I daresay you wonder how I come to be in the great 
metropolis, when you thought I was booked for some 
time to come in a French convict prison. My dear Loo, 
I’ve had a bit of luck. A lot of the fellows got up a plot 
to break out and murder the governor and the warders. 

I sold them just in the nick of time, and saved the lives 
of half the staff. Feeling that my fellow-sufferers would 
make it warm for me, the Government very kindly gave 
me a free pardon for my services on condition that I 
quitted French soil. And I jumped at the offer, you bet, 
my dear. Of course I came to London full of hope a'nd 
love, and wondering what my little Loo would say to 
her bad boy who had been away so long. This afternoon 
when passing the Criterion I looked into the American 
bar and met an old friend, and we began to talk about old 
times, and asking after Will, in order, of course, my dear, 
to get your address, I learnt that Will had had a bit of 
luck and was brother-in-law to an earl. Bravo, Loo ! 
You know I always used to say that a handsome, plucky, 
clever girl like you would get on, but hang me if I ever 
gave you credit for flying at such high game as a coronet. 
Well, my dear, I hope you are happy, though, of course, 

I feel a bit needled that you should have forgotten me so 
soon. Let me hear from you, my dear, as soon as possi- 
ble, and say where I can see you. I suppose you 
wouldn’t care for me to call at your swell mansion. The 
Earl might be at home and then it would be awkward. 

With best love, my dear Loo, believe me. 

Ever your affectionate husband, 

Jack. 

P. S. — You can write to me here in the old name.” 

“ My God ! my God ! ” moaned the unhappy woman, 
as she tore the letter fiercely to pieces and hurled the frag- 
ments into the fire. “What am I to do .? What can I do .? 
I must tell Hugh everything or ” 

She stopped a moment. Something which her brother 
had said to her when they last parted flashed across her 
mind — a promise she had made him — a promise she could 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 67 

not understand, but which was clear as the sun at noon- 
day now. 

“ Will knew it,” she cried, as a new light dawned upon 
her, “Will knew it all the time. He knew it and Kilby 
knew it. They knew this man was alive while they urged 
me to marry Hugh. Alive ! he might have been free even 
then — if he was, they knew it. This letter is a tissue of lies. 
The whole thing has been planned from the beginning by 
the gang and this man. I can see it all now. I can see 
how they hope to make mean accomplice in their schemes. 
Well, it will be a desperate struggle, but I’ll fight for it. 
Let them do their worst. I shall soon know now, God 
help me, what that worst is. ” 

An hour later, when Lord Dashton, having pulled him- 
self together with a brandy and soda, came down to break- 
fast, he inquired where her ladyship was. 

“She ordered the carriage half an hour ago, my lord, 
and went out. She left this note to be given to you when 
you came down.” 

Lord Dashton took the note and read it through, and 
then flung it on the table. 

“Well, I’m hanged,” he exclaimed. “Of all the cool 
things ! Why, Loo must be going dotty. Then he read 
the note aloud to himself to make sure that he quite un- 
derstood. 

“ Dear Hugh, I have to go out on a matter of private 
business. If I am not home to-night don’t fidget. — Ever 
your affectionate wife, 

“Louie.” 

Lady Dashton drove straight to the Midland Hotel and 
asked if Mr. Vincent was staying in the house. 

The hall porter looked at the visitors’ list and said that 
a Mr. John Vincent was staying in the house, and that the 
number of his room was 32. A page boy was despatched 
to see if 32 was in, and returned with the intelligence that 
No. 32 was in his sitting-room; would the lady oblige 
with her name ? 

“Say a lady has called in answer to Mr. Vincent’s 
letter. 

The message was taken, and the page returned. 
“ Would the lady kindly step up ? ” 

Louie’s face was deadly white under her thick veil as 


68 


TALES OF TO-BAT. 


she entered the luxurious sitting-room, in which Mr. 
Vincent was taking his ease. The gentleman, a tall, 
good-looking, fair man of about five and thirty, rose to 
meet his visitor. 

“Why, Loo, this is an unexpected pleasure,’' he said, 
holding out his hand. “You’re the last person I expected 
to see.” 

“ Indeed ! Then why did you write to me.^* ” answered 
the girl, coldly. 

“Well, I thought you’d like to know that I was alive, 
and I expected you’d send somebody to me, to arrange 
matters. ” 

“In what way } ” 

“Well, you are a cool one. Loo, and no mistake. You 
don’t seem a bit upset at finding that you’ve got two hus- 
bands.” 

“It cant’ matter to you whether I'm upset or not. I 
thought you were dead. I was told you were dead ; that 
you had died in the French prison.” 

“ Oh — who told you .? ” 

“Will told me, and Kilby told me. When Will told 
me I sent him over to make sure, and he brought me 
back word that the rumor was quite correct. He even 
showed me a document in French which was, he said, 
the certificate.’’ 

“Good old Will! He must have got one made up 
specially for you, my dear, for you see here I am, alive 
and kicking and pretty well, thank you. The living in 
the prison agreed with me. It’s done me good, and set 
me up, my dear. No late hours, no excitement, no 
brandy cocktails there ; just enough exercise to keep you 
in condition, and plain regular living. ” 

Lady Dashton tapped her foot impatiently on the 
ground. 

“ I don’t want a description of your prison life,” she 
said ; “I want to know what you intend to do. For some 
reason or other I have been wilfully deceived. I was 
told that for what took place in France you had been sen- 
tenced to ten years’ imprisonment, and that you had died.” 

“ I was sentenced to three years, my dear, for punish- 
ing a fool of a Frenchman who said that I was playing 
with marked cards at his club. But it was beastly unfair ; 
he cut his head open by accident in falling- down when I 


fALES OF TO-EAt. 69 

pushed him. Of course, the French judge made it warm 
for me because I was an Englishman, and the French 
police swore a lot of lies about my having been known 
as a swell swindler and cardsharper. Why your brother 
told you I was dead is best known to himself. You'd 
better ask him when you see him." 

“Haven't you seen him ? " 

“No." 

“ I don't believe you. Will went over to France some 
time ago, and I believe it was to see you. You were free 
then ! " 

“Oh, as you know all about it " 

“ I don't know all about it, John Vincent, hut I sha/i 
know all about it. I'm going to Paris to-night. I’m go- 
ing to see Will and to get to the bottom of the whole busi- 
ness." 

“ Now look here. Loo," said Vincent, lighting a cigar 
and settling himself in his armchair. “You are a very 
clever girl, but don't try to be too clever. I want to be- 
have in this matter like a gentleman, and see if we can't 
come to an arrangement that will suit all parties.” 

Lady Dashton's face never relaxed for a moment from 
its look of quiet self-possession and calm disdain. 

“What sort of an arrangement do you think would 
suit all parties ? " she said. 

“ Well, I suppose you’re pretty comfortable as a coun- 
tess ; you and this rich young swell get along all right 
together. I’m told, and you’ve been taken to kindly by 
the other swells. That sort of thing suits you, and I don’t 
suppose you want to chuck it up and come down again 
to be the wife of a — a " 

“A swindler — and an ex-convict.” The girl finished 
the sentence which the man hesitated to complete. 

“Well, that isn't the way I should have put it. Loo, 
but you're not far out. I suppose I’m not the sort of hus- 
band a girl who’s been a countess would care to take 
about and introduce. And, of course, the Earl wouldn't 
like the exposure'; and the female swells you've been 
among lately, I suppose they'd be rather wild to think 
they’d been hob-nobbing with a young woman whose 
husband was in jail. Lord, what a boom the news- 
papers would give the scandal if it ever came out. Fancy 
the three of us. Loo, in the Police News. A big portrait 


70 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


of you in the middle, with me on one side of you and the 
Earl on the other, with a full, true, and particular account 
of my career and your adventures given away as a sup- 
plement ! ” 

Lady Dashton bit her lip and gave an involuntary 
shudder. The picture which the swindler, who was her 
husband, was painting in his coarse vulgar way, came 
vividly before her eyes. With a supreme effort she kept 
down her indignation, and without a tremor in her voice 
put the next question. 

“ You spoke of this scandal being avoided, just now,'’ 
she said. “How do you propose that it shall be 
done ? ” 

The man hesitated. He was not playing entirely on 
his own account, and he didn’t want to make a false step. 

‘ ‘ That’s a matter that can be decided on later, my dear, 
after we’ve had a little family council.” 

“ Oh ! then Will and Kilby and Major do know of your 
re-appearance ? ” 

“ I didn’t say so.” 

“I can draw my own conclusion. But as I can't see 
that they have anything to do with the matter, I want a 
proposition from you. Do you intend to claim me as 
your wife ? ” 

“Certainly I do, unless ” 

“ Unless what ? ” 

“Unless you make it worth my while not to. If you 
do I’ll go away, and you shall never hear of me again. 
I’ll go to America, and as long as you send me the allow- 
ance we shall fix upon I’ll stop there.” 

“ Give me figures, if you please.” 

“Well, your husband — I beg your pardon, the Earl of 
Dashton — is a very wealthy young fellow, and I under- 
stand you can get anything you like out of him. You 
must get me £10,000 down and allow me a £1,000 a year. 
Of course -you can get the money without saying what 
it’s for.” 

“And the other men — who are in your secret — who 
have concocted the whole plot — who played their cards 
to bring about Dashton’s marriage with me, knowing that 
you were alive, and intending to trade on their knowledge 
— what will they want ? ” 

“Ah, now you are going into a question that I can’t 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


71 

answer. They must do their own business, but I don’t 
think you’ll find them hard.” 

“You may as well tell me. The whole of this odious 
comedy has been rehearsed, John Vincent, and you’ve 
heard them repeat their parts.” 

“Well, they’ll want money, of course, but with me out 
of the way you can easily find a means of squaring 
them. ” 

Lady Dashton rose to go. 

“Very well,” she said. “I think I understand every- 
thing now. How long do you give me to comply with 
your demand } ” 

“A week — a fortnight, if you. like. There’s no partic- 
ular hurry.” 

“And in the meantime you will take no further steps. 
You will not communicate with the Earl?” 

“Certainly not, Loo ; as long as you act fair and square 
by me, I’ll do the same by you.” 

“ Good morning.” 

“ Good morning. Won’t you shake hands. Loo .? ” 

Lady Dashton turned and looked her husband straight 
in the face. “No, John Vincent, at present I am the 
wife of the Earl of Dashton, and I have no right as his 
wife to shake hands with a felon fresh from jail.” 

A taunt rose to the man’s lips, but he checked it, and 
received the insult with a laugh. 

“All right, my lady,” he said, “you always had a good 
seat on the high horse. It’s an expensive animal to ride, 
but you’ve got a long purse to dip into, so you can afford 
the luxury. I shall expect your answer in a week.” 

He accompanied his wife to the door, opened it, and 
bowed her out with mock politeness. 

As soon as she had gone he went to the table, took a 
telegraph form from the blotting book, and filled it up. 

To Joyce, Grand Hotel, Paris. Have seen her. She 
asked terms. Given a week. Letter follows. Vincent. 

He rang the bell for the waiter and gave him the tele- 
gram, saying it was to go at once. 

When Lady Dashton went downstairs she asked the 
hall porter which was the nearest telegraph station, and 
was directed to it. She went there and was writing out 
a telegram to her cousin, Kate Joyce, asking her to come 
at once to the Charing Cross Hotel, when the porter from 


72 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


the Midland entered with a telegram. He laid it down on 
the little desk, waiting for the clerk to take it, and Lady 
Dashton saw the address — Joyce, Grand Hotel, Paris. 

It was a lucky accident. Her brother had only given 
her the Poste Restante as his address. She knew where 
to go now directly she arrived in Paris. 

That evening, accompanied by her cousin, Lady Dash- 
ton left for the French capital. She was determined to 
have the whole situation within her grasp before she saw 
the Earl again. 


Will Joyce was very much astonished when his sister, 
on the following morning, walked into his room while he 
was taking his coffee. His face flushed crimson, and for 
a moment he was unable to speak. 

Louie was a very different person now to the calm, 
self-possessed woman who had interviewed John Vincent. 
She upbraided her brother bitterly for his conduct, and 
gave vent to her pent-up feelings in a flood of tears. 
Joyce was utterly unmanned at the sight of his sister’s 
grief and despair. He tried to persuade her that he was 
helpless in the matter, and that after all it wasn’t a very 
dreadful affair, and that Vincent might easily be got rid 
of, and nobody be any the wiser. Then Louie’s grief 
gave way to indignation. Her cheeks flushing, her eyes 
flashing, she declared that she would not lend herself to 
an infamous fraud upon the man they had tried to make 
their dupe. They had made a mistake in fancying that 
she would help them to rob and swindle him. She de- 
clared that she would go back to England and reveal the 
whole plot, and that they should all be made to answer 
for their share in it. 

Then she changed her tone and flung herself upon her 
knees and implored her brother, by the memory of the 
old days when they had been all in all to each other, and 
endured trouble and poverty and misery together, not to 
side with her enemies against her, but to help her to de- 
feat them. She was sure that there was some way out of 
the dreadful dilemma in which their wickedness had 
involved her. Wouldn’t Will be her friend now, and save 
her from shame and humiliation ? 

She went over the whole circumstances of her mar- 


TALt:S OF TO-tiAlt, 


73 

riage with Vincent. She recalled everything to her 
brother’s memory : how she had met this man, who was 
one of the associates of Kilby and Major, and how he had 
passed for a rich diamond merchant, and had made love 
to her, and how she, being poor and without friends, 
had thought it would be a good thing for Will and herself 
if she made a rich marriage, and had at last consented, and 
how on the very day of the wedding her husband had 
had to leave London suddenly, he said, because his father 
was dying, but, as they afterwards knew, because a 
young fellow whom he had swindled at cards had gone 
to the police about the matter, and Vincent was afraid 
that he would be arrested. And then the girl reminded 
her brother of how the next they heard of her husband 
was that he had been arrested in France for half-murder- 
ing a Frenchman who had accused him of cheating at 
one of the small Paris “Hells.” 

“ And then,” sobbed the distracted woman, “ you told 
me he had been sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment, 
and had been taken ill and died, and I was free of him 
forever, and need never think of that dreadful wedding- 
day again, except as one thinks of a horrible nightmare 
that has vanished when one opens one’s eyes in the day- 
light. And you know. Will, when I married Dashton it 
was by your wish that I kept this part of my life a secret 
from him. You told me that it would hurt and pain him, 
and I believed that in the eyes of God and man I was 

going to be his lawful wife — and now Oh, Will, my 

brother, it is too cruel, too awful ! Help me. Will, or I 
shall go mad.” 

Will Joyce tried to stem the torrent of the poor girl’s 
despair, but he failed utterly, and at last his better nature 
triumphed, and, taking his sister in his arms he ex- 
claimed, “You’re right. Loo, Fve been a scoundrel. 
God help me, I see it all now. There, there, dear, don’t 
give way any more. Fll be square for your sake from 
to-day. You shan’t fight the gang alone, for Fll fight 
with you instead of against you, and if there is a way 
out of this infernal mess, by Heaven, Fll find it.” 

The brother and sister remained in earnest conversa- 
tion for an hour, then Lady Dashton went to Kate Joyce’s 
room and had a good cry, and later in the day they all 
three went out together to luncheon, and afterwards 


74 


TALt:S OF TO-DAY. 


drove to the office of the Chief of Police in Paris, where 
Will was anxious to make certain inquiries with regard 
to the trial, sentence, and eventual liberation of Mr. 
John Vincent, the English card-sharper, and the next 
Will Joyce day accompanied his sister and Kate Joyce to 
London. 


The Earl of Dashton received his wife’s explanation 
frankly. Louie told him that she had been compelled 
to go hurriedly to Paris to see her brother, that she had 
been accompanied by her cousin, Kate Joyce, and that 
Will had returned with them, and that it was an affair in 
which Will was mixed up, and which he wished settled 
honorably, that had compelled her to start in such an un- 
ceremonious fashion. 

“Some mess he’s been getting in again, eh. Loo.? 
Well, he ought to have been able to go square with the 
money he had of me. You’re a deuced good little woman 
to take so much trouble over him. I wish I had had a 
sister like you.” 

“ It isn’t only that I’m Will’s sister, dear,” replied Louie, 
“I am your wife, and any scandal in which Will was 
mixed up would reflect on me.” 

“Quite right. Money matters, I suppose ? ” 

“It was a question of money, certainly.” 

His lordship threw away the end of the cigarette he 
was smoking, and took his wife’s hands. 

“Loo, old girl,” he said, “if money’s wanted don’t 
you go doing anything foolish with your jewels or any- 
thing of that sort. Come straight to me and you shall 
have it. You’ve been a little brick in money matters. 
When I married you I expected that Will and Kilby and 
their mob would try to work me for a bit through you, 
and I daresay they have, but you’ve never given me away 
or played their game for them.” 

“Hugh, you don’t think ” 

“All right. Loo, I’m not saying you would have done 
it, but I know what a warm lot they are, and I’ll bet 
long odds they’ve tried it on. I didn’t go about with 
them for a couple of years for nothing.” 

“Hugh, dear, you’ve always trusted me and believed 
me. Would you trust me still if I told you that when I 


TALES OF TO-BA T. 


7S 

married you I kept from you something you ought to 
have known ? 

The earnestness of his wife’s manner, the strange look 
in her face as she spoke these words, quite startled her 
husband. 

“What do you mean. Loo ”he said, anxiously, “what 
could there have been that I ought to have known } ” 

“You’ve trusted me, Hugh, and I’ll trust you. I’ll 
trust you with a secret that may make you drive me from 
you — that may make you hate me : but you must know 
it some day, and I would sooner that you heard it from 
my own lips. Hugh, dear, when I became your wife I 
was a married woman.” 

“ What ! ” 

Lord Dashton’s face turned deadly white, and he reeled 
back as if he had been struck a violent blow. 

“Say that again,” he cried. “I don’t understand 
you. You are joking; but it’s a nasty kind of a joke, 
Loo.” 

“Hugh, dear Hugh, listen tome,” pleaded the girl, “it 
is true ; but as there’s a God above us, I was innocent of 
any wickedness in the matter.” 

Then, the tears streaming down her face, she gasped 
out the whole wretched story, and falling ou her knees 
beside her husband, begged and implored him not to 
think badly of her, but to stand by her in her hour of trial 
and be her champion, her protector. 

Hugh’s first impulse when he grasped the truth was to 
fly into a furious rage. It maddened him to think that 
he had been “had,” for directly the whole import of 
Louie’s confession dawned upon him, he knew that Joyce 
and Kilby and Major had, in the language of the frater- 
nity, “got it up for him.” 

But when he looked down at the pale, agonized, tearful 
face of the woman who knelt beside him, all the love he 
felt for the girl who had been so good and true a wife to 
him welled up in his heart. 

“It’s an awful thing. Loo,” he said in a hoarse, trem- 
bling voice, “an awful thing ! And I don’t see yet where 
it’s to end ; but I’m not going to round on you over it. 
You didn’t mean any harm, but, by — , I’ll make those 
fellows smart for their share in it ! ” 

The young Earl rose and paced the room. Presently 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


76 

calming himself with an effort, he came up to Louie and 
took her hands in his again. 

“ I’m awfully sorry for you, dear,” he said. “I’m try- 
ing to think what’s best to be done. I don’t know much 
about the law, but I have an idea that your marriage with 
this fellow might be got over — what do you call it, an- 
nulled — but of course that wouldn’t make you my wife, 
because it wasn’t annulled when you married me, and I 
believe a marriage is a marriage till it’s set aside. I’tn 
not up in the law, but I think I’ve read cases of the sort. 
I’ll go and see a lawyer. You’d better leave it all to me, 
I think.” 

“Yes, dear, now I’ve told you everything I can; but — 
but. I’d better go away from you, hadn’t I ? ” 

“Well, it would be as well, perhaps. It’s deuced hard, 
and it makes me feel infernally miserable, but I suppose 
for both our sakes it’s the best thing to be done. But don’t 
go and make yourself too wretched. I’ve an idea that 
somehow or other things ’ll come right again.” 

“ Oh, I hope so, Hugh ; it will kill me if we have to 
part forever. ” 

“God bless you, my darling,” cried the young fellow 
passionately, “you’ve been the good angel of my life, the 
best woman I ever knew, but that only makes this wretched 
business all the more cruel.” 

“ Where shall I go ? ” 

“Wait a minute, let me think. You’d better take your 
cousin Kate with you, and Partridge, your maid, and go 
to some quiet seaside place for a bit. I’ll write to you 
every day and let you know how things are going on and 
what I’ve decided to do.” 

Louie agreed to her husband’s proposition. She felt that it 
was the best thing to do under the circumstances. Before 
she left she placed him in possession of all the facts concern- 
ing her first marriage, and gave him full particulars of the 
way in which her brother and his friends had made her 
believe that John Vincent was dead. And late in the 
afternoon she bade her husband a tearful adieu, and 
started with Kate and her maid for Seaford, a quiet little 
place on the Sussex coast between Brighton and East- 
bourne. 

Lord Dashton, as soon as he had seen his wife off, had 
a long interview with the family solicitor, who had 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


77 


arrived in hot haste in obedience to a summons from his 
lordship. The lawyer mastered the facts of the case, and 
explained that it would probably have to be made public 
before anything could be done. Of course it would be a 
case that would attract considerable attention, but under 
any circumstances — that was to say under any honorable 
circumstances — it was one which it would be impossible 
to hush up. If Vincent didn’t take proceedings, the Earl 
would have to, as it would never do for him to continue to 
acknowledge as his Countess a lady who was the wife of 
another man. 

Poor Dashton, looking the picture of despair, sat and 
listened to the lawyer. Whichever way he looked at the 
situation it was bad for Louie. As soon as he had got a 
rough idea of how the law stood in the matter, he brought 
the interview to a close, promising to see the lawyer 
again the next day and give him his decision in the 
matter. 

As soon as the solicitor had gone, Lord Dashton went 
out with the intention of paying a visit to Mr. John Vin- 
cent, whose address he had ascertained from Louie. 

At the hotel he found that Mr. Vincent had been out all 
day. He had left a message to the effect that if a Mr. 
Joyce called he was to be told that he (Mr. Vincent) would 
be back about seven. 

“Had Mr. Joyce been.?” 

“ Yes, and on receipt of the message he had said that he 
would return at that hour.” 

“Good,” said the Earl to himself. “Then if I come at 
a quarter past I shall probably catch them together and 
kill two birds with one stone. 

His lordship drove to one of his clubs, wrote a letter to 
his wife, and returned to the hotel by seven. 

Lighting a cigarette, he stood on the opposite side of 
the way waiting to see his ‘ ‘ friend ” arrive. 

He didn’t know Vincent from Adam, so he had to wait 
for Joyce. Mr. Joyce drove up in a hansom, and imme- 
diately the Earl crossed the road and accosted him. 

“Hallo, Dashton,” exclaimed Will, turning a little pale, 
“who the dickens would have expected to see you here ? ” 

“Joyce,” replied the Earl, sternly, “your sister has 
told me everything.” 

“Dashton,” stammered the young man, “ I hope you’ll 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


78 

believe me wnen I say that I’m heartily ashamed of myself 
for the share I had in this unhappy business. ” 

“You ong-ht to be, Joyce. I never did you any harm. 
If you hadn’t any regard for my happiness you might 
have had for your sister’s. The wrong you have done 
her you can never atone for.’' j 

“I can atone for it, Dashton,” exclaimed Joyce eagerly/ 
“and God helping me, I will. I’m going to see Vinceiit 
now. Come with me and you shall judge for yourself if 
I am working against you.” I 

“Very well,” replied the Earl. “Let us go to him at 
once.” 

Inside the hotel the gentlemen were informed that Mr. 
Vincent had returned, and they were conducted to his 
room. 

“ Hullo, Will,” said Mr. Vincent. “I expected — ” he 
stopped short as Lord Dashton, who had remained be- 
hind for a moment, followed Joyce into the room. “Is 
this a friend of yours ? he said, staring at Dashton, and 
wondering why Joyce had brought a stranger to such an 
important interview as theirs was to be. 

“ I was a friend of Mr. Joyce’s,” said the Earl, without 
giving Will time to reply. “Whether I am a friend of 
his now you will be better able to judge when I introduce 
myself I presume you are Mr. John Vincent. I am the 
Earl of Dashton.” 

Mr. John Vincent stared at the name, and looked at 
Will. What was the meaning of these two men being to- 
gether ? Had Will told him, or had he brought the Earl 
with him in pursuance of some well thought out plan ? 

He wasn’t allowed much time to hesitate between the 
two theories, for Joyce at once decided the matter for 
him. 

“Vincent, ” he said. Lord Dashton is my sister’s hus- 
band. He married her in complete ignorance of her first 
marriage to you. She married him under the firm con- 
viction that you were dead. I am here as Lord Dashton’s 
friend, and I intend to be no longer a party to the scheme 
for blackmailing him which was concocted some time 
ago by Kilby, Major, you and myself” 

“Blackmail be — ,” exclaimed Vincent, going crimson 
with rage. “Look here, Mr. Joyce, if that’s your game, 
you can take yourself off. My business is with Lord 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


79 


Dashton, and we can transact it without your assistance.” 

Fou can,” replied Joyce, coolly, “but his lordship 
will be glad of my help. So I shall stay. ” 

“Very good ; then we’ll begin at once. Tm sorry, my 
lord, that I am placed in the unfortunate position of being 
the lawful husband of the lady you have made your 
countess ; but as I am in that position, I should like to 
know what course your lordship proposes to take. ” 

“ I propose,” replied the Earl, “ to get you out of that 
position as soon as possible.” 

“By all means. I shall be happy to hear how you 
would like to do it. You’ll find me reasonable.” 

“I’m glad of that. I expected that you would have 
asked me for a large sum of money to hush the affair up. 
Lady Dashton told me that you wanted £10,000 down 
and £1,000 a year.” 

“Oh ! She told you that, did she.? ” 

“ She did. Now, Mr. Vincent, you see there is per- 
fect confidence between the lady and myself, so you can 
play cards on the table.” 

‘ ‘ Certainly ; and so can you. The proposition is a very 
moderate one under the circumstances. Does it suit 
you .? ” 

“Not at all. I intend to pay you nothing.” 

“ Oh. Then you are willing to let me prove my claim 
to the lady in a court of law. ” 

“That is exactly what I expect you to do.” 

“ It’ll be a nice scandal for her and for you.” 

“ It must be under any circumstances, but I think we 
shall come out of it better than you will ; and before that 
can come on, you will have another little unpleasantness 
to go through. It is my intention to charge you and your 
accomplices with an offence that is commonly called 
blackmailing. I shall bring your previous career out at 
the trial, and I fancy your wife will be deprived of your 
charming society for some considerable period, even if 
you should be so fortunate as to prove your claim to her.” 

Mr. Vincent turned on Joyce with a savage scowl. 

“This is your doing, you sweep,” he exclaimed ; “but 
if I stand in fhe dock you’ll stand beside me.” 

“There you are wrong, Mr. Vincent,” replied the Earl ; 
“I am indebted to Mr. Joyce for the information. He 
will be what I believe is called Queen’s Evidence.” 


8o 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


“A nice thing for his sister that’ll be. People will say 
you married into a nice family, my lord.” 

‘ ‘ People will only see how I have been duped, and pity 
me, and if you prove your case, you know, Mr. Vincent, 

I shall be free of the family. ]\Ir. Joyce’s sister won’t be 
my wife, but yours.” 

IMr. Vincent said nothing, but he looked unutterable 
things. Presently he altered his expression and tried to 
appear amiable. 

“ You’re a cleverer chap than I took you for, my lord,” 
he said, with a ghastly attempt at a grin : “I see it’s no 
good trying to get the best of you. But the matter ’ll have 
to be settled somehow, and we may as well come to a 
friendly arrangement. Have you got anything to pro- 
pose } ” 

“Yes. This — I propose that you shall commence pro- 
ceedings against your wife for divorce and make me the 
co-respondent.” 

“ And if I do that you will give me ? ” 

“Nothing — it would be illegal. It would be conniv- 
ance. I insist on you bringing this action. If you don’t. 
I'll keep my threat.” 

“ That’s your decision ? ” 

“ Yes. I’ve nothing more to say except good evening. 
Joyce, see me to the door. You can return and see your 
friend again when I’m gone.” 

Once outside the Earl explained his plan to Joyce. It 
wouldn’t do for the Earl himself to find money for the 
suit, or to promise Vincent any money, as if it came to the 
knowledge of the court it would afect the case. But 
Joyce could do it carefully, and in such a way that no- 
body would know except Vincent. 

Will Joyce understood the situation at once and prom- 
ised to see that every danger was guarded agains 

Some time later the announcement that a petition had 
been filed by one John Vincent against his wife, Louisa 
Vincent, falsely called the Countess of Dashton, created 
an immense sensation, and when the case came on the 
excitement had reached fever heat. 

The first marriage was proved beyond a doubt, and then, 
evidence as to the second marriage was taken and John 
Vincent appeared hj person to prove that he was alive at 
the time. 


TALES OF TO-DAT. 8 1 

In cross-examination he admitted that he left the lady 
an hour after marriage and ran away to avoid a little dif- 
ficulty with the law ; he also admitted his conviction in 
France and explained how he obtained his liberty. Noth- 
ing was asked about the “blackmail " plot. The defend- 
ants didn’t desire to go into that for the sake of Louie’s 
brother. When Mr. Vincent left the box, other witnesses 
followed, all of whom proved the marriage, and then the 
case for the defence commenced. The defence was a 
strange one. It was that at the time John Vincent married 
Louisa Joyce it was not a legal marriage. Nothing was 
said to its being a marriage which was one in name only 
— it was contended clearly and concisely that the cere- 
mony itself never was a legal one, and in proof of the 
contention a showily dressed young woman was placed 
in the box. The woman was asked what she was, and 
her answer was not to her credit, but the name she gave 
was that of Ellen Vincent, and the story she told was that 
she had married John Vincent, the man she recognized in 
court, five years previous to the date of his marriage with 
Miss Joyce, of which she knew nothing until lately ; that 
after a year of unhappy married life she had left her hus- 
band, as he gave her nothing but abuse and ill-treatment ; 
and that since then she had lived the life she was at pres- 
ent leading. She had never taken any trouble to commu- 
nicate with her husband, or he with her ; and she never 
expected to see him again. She had read of the case, as 
coming on, in the papers ; and the name had struck her, 
and she had communicated with the Earl of Dashton. 
She didn’t see that a man who had treated her so badly 
should be allowed to get the best of a gentleman like the 
Earl. 

The case was not long in coming to a conclusion after 
that. Mr. John Vincent had neglected to obtain a divorce 
when he had the opportunity. When he did enter the 
Divorce Court, that fact upset his case. 

The decision of the court was that there had been no 
legal marriage between John Vincent and Louisa Joyce, 
and therefore he had no case ; and the result of the trial 
was only to establish the fact that Louisa Joyce, having 
been nobody’s wife when she married Hugh, Earl of 
Dashton, was the legal wife of his lordship. 


82 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


Hugh Dashton and his wife received the congratulations 
of everybody who knew them on the result of the great 
trial. * It had ended in a far better way than they had 
dared to anticipate. The danger of losing Louie had 
opened the Earl’s eyes to the nobility and sweetness of 
her character and the purity of her love for him, and to- 
day there is no happier couple in the three kingdoms. 
The Earl has seA^ered the last tie that bound him to his 
evil companions, and is now turning his attention to 
nobler pursuits. Will Joyce has been long ago forgiven 
for his share in the ‘‘Blackmail ” plot, and has a fine cattle 
ranche in Texas, and is coming home next year to look 
out for a nice amiable little English girl for a wife. The 
Earl says that if he can find one half as good as his sister 
Louie he will be a very lucky fellow indeed. 


IV. 

A PRIVATE INQUIRY. 

Mr. John Ellerton, late Inspector of the Criminal 
Investigation Department of Scotland Yard, sat gazing 
disconsolately into the embers of a dying fire towards 
the close of a gloomy November afternoon. 

There were plenty of things besides the weather to 
make Mr. Ellerton take a melancholy view of the situation. 

He had left Scotland Yard to “better"’ himself. He 
had made a splendid reputation as an active and intel- 
ligent detective. His knowledge of French and German, 
a knowledge acquired in his childhood, had enabled him 
to advance rapidly from the ranks to a high position in 
the detective force, and his gentlemanly appearance and 
manners had caused him to be employed upon delicate 
foreign missions. He had also succeeded in running to 
earth some of the most desperate criminals in the kingdom. 

But reputation, unless it bears solid fruit in the shape 
of honors and rewards, is not a thing that one can spend 
one’s whole life in cultivating. John, Ellerton, after 
some ten years of active service, during which he had 
risked his life again and again in order to bring some 
desperate malefactor to justice, found himself still in the 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 83 

receipt of the magnificent income of three pounds per 
week and heavily in debt. 

He had been “too active.” In hunting criminals 
down he had been too eager, and in his eagerness he 
had exceeded the allowance for expenses made by the 
authorities. A detective who has to gallop across Europe 
after a criminal with plenty of money finds himself per- 
petually thwarted by the insufticiency of the allowance 
made to him from headquarters. If he wishes to push 
on, to overcome difficulties, to bribe servants and buy 
information, he must put his hand in his own pocket. 
If he charged the items on his expense sheet they would 
not be allowed. 

Not long ago one of the principal detectives of Scotland 
Yard was sent for by his superiors to explain an item in 
his return of expenses in connection with the arrest of 
a murderer who had evaded pursuit for six weeks. The 
item was this, “Bus. 2 d. ” 

“ IVIr. — ,” exclaimed his superior, with a stern ex- 
pression of countenance, “there is an error in your 
charges. The bus from such a place to such a place is 
one penny. What do you mean by charging two- 
pence 1 ” 

“Sir,” replied the detective, “I regret that you should 
imagine I would endeaver to defraud the Commissioners 
of a penny. I paid the twopence because that was what 
the conductor demanded. Being in a hurry I jumped 
into the first bus which came along, and it was a pirate 
bus. If I had stopped to dispute with the man I should 
have lost the person I was following.” 

The penny cannot be allowed,” was the reply. “If 
you choose to get into a pirate bus and submit to extortion 
you must pay for it yourself.” And with that a penny 
was deducted from the detective’s bill of expenses. 

You may easily imagine that under such circumstances 
as these a detective whose heart is in his profession 
very frequently has his hand in his pocket, and that a 
large portion of his pay goes in expenses which he can- 
not charge in his bill. So it was with John Ellerton, and 
at last he found that in his endeavor to be a good 
detective, a good husband and a good father, he was 
coming rapidly to grief. He had been compelled to 
borrow money to meet his household expenses, and 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


84 

being in difficulties he found himself exposed to a hundred 
temptations and dangers in his profession. 

At last, finding that he had no chance of improving his 
position or getting an adccpiate income in the force, he 
determined to start on his own account as a private 
detective. He felt confident that his reputation would 
soon bring him customers, and that by giving his entire 
time and attention to the business he would be able to 
materially improve his financial position. 

In due time, therefore, he shook the dust of ‘‘the 
Yard ” from his feet, and having taken a couple of rooms 
on the second floor of a little house in a side street run- 
ning off the Strand, he blossomed forth in the advertise- 
ments as the head of Ellerton’s Private Inquiry and 
Detective Agency. 

He commenced business in October with a great flourish 
of trumpets. He sent circulars broadcast, and his adver- 
tisement appeared daily in the leading London and Paris 
journals. But six weeks had gone by, and the middle of 
November found him gazing disconsolately into the office 
fire, and wondering what on earth could have induced 
him to give up £3 a week certain and “makings ” for the 
privilege of paying office rent and a big weekly bill to the 
advertisement agents. He had had several applications 
for his services, it is true. Old ladies had called upon 
him and requested him to make inquiries as to large sums 
of money to which they felt sure they were entitled, be- 
cause they had seen somebody of the same name adver- 
tised for many years ago. A gentleman called and re- 
quested an interview, and drew large bundles of papers 
out of all his pockets, and undid them and commenced to 
read extracts, all of which, he explained, went to prove 
that he was the rightful heir to the throne of England, 
and he was willing to place his case in Mr. Ellerton’s 
hands on the understanding that nothing was to be paid 
until the Crown was actually in his client’s possession. 
A young man, who refused to give his name, but who 
stated that he was connected with the best families in the 
three kingdoms, offered to present Mr. Ellerton with ten 
thousand pounds if he would discover and break up an 
ingenious mechanical contrivance for simulating the 
sound of human voices which his enemies kept concealed 
in a subterranean passage for the purpose of driving the 


TALES OF TO~DA Y, 


85 

young man mad ; and an unhappy green-grocer, who 
had fallen a victim to the green-eyed monster, wished to 
engage Mr. Ellerton to watch his wife, if Mr. Ellerton 
would in consideration of the badness of the times take 
his fees and expenses out in potatoes, cauliflowers, and 
turnips. 

It may be gathered from these facts that Mr. Ellerton 
passed a good many bad quarters of an hour as he sat in 
his office and waited for the clients who were worth 
having, but who didn’t seem in any hurry to come. 

On the November afternoon mentioned at the com- 
mencement of this narrative, while Mr. Ellerton sat look- 
ing disconsolately into the dying embers of his office fire, 
things looked very black indeed. 

One or two little jobs had come in, it is true, but they 
were not jobs out of which much money could be made, 
and Mr. Ellerton was beginning to think that he would have 
to turn his attention to something more lucrative than a 
private inquiry office and detective agency if he wanted 
to pay his creditors twenty shillings in the pound. 

The clerk had gone for the day, for it was past office 
hours, and presently the neighboring church clock strik- 
ing six reminded the ex-detective that he had promised 
his wife to take her to the theatre that evening, having re- 
ceived an order from an old friend, a theatrical manager, 
and it was time for him to make his way home and put 
himself into evening dress. 

He rose from his chair with a weary sigh, took his hat, 
and was just putting on his overcoat, when there came a 
gentle knocking at the outer door. 

“Come in,” said Mr. Ellerton. 

The door slowly opened, and a lady, deeply veiled, 
entered the room. 

“ I am afraid I am coming at an inconvenient time,” 
said the lady, noticing the hat and overcoat, “but I wish 
to see Mr. Ellerton on a matter of business.” 

“ I am Mr. Ellerton, madam,” said the detective, 
motioning the lady to be seated, and taking a chair him- 
self. “ I am at your service.” 

The lady sat down, and after a moment’s hesitation 
raised her veil. The agent was hardly able to control 
the exclamation of admiration which rose to his lips. 

“What a beautiful girl !” he thought to himself. “I 


86 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


wonder whom she wants watched. A husband or a 
lover ? ” 

The lady, who was about four and twenty, was a dark 
beauty of the Spanish type. Her features were perfect, 
and she had the most beautiful eyes, the detective thought, 
he had ever seen. As she fixed them upon him he felt an 
extraordinary sensation, which in relating the occurrence 
afterwards to his wife he found it almost impossible to 
describe. It was half admiration, half fear. 

The eager, almost fierce glance of his beautiful visitor, 
unnerved him for a moment, and he lowered his eyes as 
one does after gazing at the sun, and looked down at the 
floor. But, recovering himself, and assuming an air of 
indifference, he speedily looked up again and said : 

“You wish to see me on business, madam.? If I can 
serve you in any way I shall be delighted. Anything 
that you may say to me I shall, of course, treat as strictly 
confidential.” 

“Of course,” replied the lady. “ I have heard of your 
great talents, Mr. Ellerton, and I felt sure that I could rely 
upon your discretion or I should not have come to you. 
Let me state my business as briefly as possible. 

“I am a married woman. I was married two years 
ago to a man whom I believed to be rich and a gentle- 
man. I was a governess at a ladies’ school at Folkestone 
at the time, and it was what you would call a runaway 
match.” 

“Pardon me,” said the detective, “ may I ask if you 
are an Englishwoman ? ” 

“ Why do you ask the question.? ” 

“You said you were a governess, and something in 
your appearance and manner made me think you might 
be a foreign governess ; and you have a slight accent — 
very slight — but still an accent.” 

“You are right, sir,” replied the young lady with a 
smile. “ I see you are a quick observer. I was the 
French governess. I am from the south of France. But 
let me proceed with my story. It was one afternoon on 
the Lees at Folkestone that I met the man who became 
my lover. He was young, handsome, and appeared a 
gentleman. He had a big dog with him. I had with 
me the dog of my employer. The two dogs fought. I 
was terrified and screamed ; the young gentleman sepa- 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


87 

rated the dogs, and after that always bowed when we 
met, and hoped that my dog had not been bitten. You 
do not want to know of our courtship. We met often. 

I was tired of the life of insult and drudgery I was lead- 
ing at the school. He offered to make me his wife. I 
consented. He went to London and wrote to me that 
all was ready. I went up oiv^ night, stayed at an hotel, 
met him the next day, and we were married at a church. 
After that we lived in a furnished house which my hus- 
band took. He must have been rich, for he gave me 
jewelry, dresses, all that I wanted, and had always 
plenty of money. But no one came to see us ; we had 
no friends. When I asked my husband about his friends 
he said that he had none ; but sometimes he would go 
away for a week or a fortnight, and I thought that he had 
some friends somewhere and did not like them to know 
that he was married. ” 

“Pardon me one moment,” interrupted the detec- 
tive. “Was your husband in any profession — any busi- 
ness ? ” 

“No ; I should think not. He was always at home 
except when he went away as I have told you. About 
twelve months ago he went away and took more luggage 
than usual. He said he should be back in a fortnight. 
He left me plenty of money to go on with. At the end 
of the fortnight I received a letter from him. It told me 
that his absence, owing to some family trouble, would 
have to be prolonged for some time, and inclosed me a 
bank note for £100.” 

“Go on, madam,” said the detective, anxious to hear 
at what point his services were to come in. 

“After that letter I heard no more for three months, 
and then came another inclosing a £100 note, and telling 
me that my husband would probably be away for a year, 
but that money would be sent me every three months. 
If I moved I was to advertise my new address in the 
Daily Telegraph agony column with the words ‘Some 
day’ and my Christian name ‘Louise.’ I was to do this 
that money might reach me.” 

“ Have you the letter inclosing these instructions ?” 

“No; unfortunately I destroyed it accidentally some 
time ago.” 

“I understand then, madam, that a year ago your 


TALES OF TO~DA Y. 

husband left you and you have not seen him since ? Is 
that so ? ” 

•‘It is.” 

“Some time after he went away you received a letter 
in his handwriting, accompanied by a remittance. Since 
then you have received money enough to live upon, but 
no communication as to your husband’s whereabouts. 
Is that so ? ” 

“That is exactly the case.” 

“Good. I understand perfectly. Now what do you 
want me to do ! ” 

“To find out for me where my husband is.” 

The detective thought the matter over to himself for a 
moment. Then he said, “I will do my best, but you 
must help me. In a matter of this sort you must keep 
nothing back. Now, tell me ; what is your own idea 
of the matter ? ” 

“ First tell me, having heard these facts, what is your 
idea.” 

“ I haven’t seriously thought the matter out yet,” re- 
plied the detective, “but at the first blush two solutions 
of the mystery occur to me. The first is that your hus- 
band has left you for somebody else ; the second, that 
this ‘trouble’ he speaks of is something which compels 
him to keep out of the way. Now tell me what is your 
own idea.” 

“I have an idea,” replied the young wife, “but I shall 
not tell it you, lest it should put you on the wrong scent. 
What I wish you to do is to take my c^e up. If you 
wish I will bring you to-morrow the only photograph I 
have of my husband, a copy of my marriage certificate, 
and I will give you all the information I can. As to 
terms, I will be plain with you. I do not intend to have 
the rest of my life ruined, and to be the wife of a husband 
of whose whereabouts I am ignorant. Give me the 
means of annulling or dissolving this marriage, and 
on the day that 1 am free you shall have a thousand 
pounds.” 

It was a large sum to be promised, and the detective 
opened his eyes. 

“ Do not be afraid,” said the young lady, “that you 
will, if you fail, have done your work for nothing. Here 
is a fifty pound note for your preliminary expenses. 


TALES OF TO-DAY.' 


89 

When that is gone you can have what more you require.” 

Ellerton took the note and looked at it mechanically. 
It was a perfectly good one. The detective thought to him- 
self that for a lady who only had a quarterly remittance 
from her husband and had to live out of it, she was very 
free with her money. 

Something of what was passing in the detective’s 'mind 
was guessed by his visitor. 

“I must be frank with you,” she said, rising : “there 
is another person who is anxious to have evidence that 
will make me a free woman. Some one with plenty of 
money. I will call on you again to-morrow morning. 
Good evening. ” 

“It’s a rum case, said Mr. Ellerton to his wife, as he 
explained to that good lady the reason he was so late 
home to dress, “ but it’s a good one for me. I expect 
the person with plenty of money is a gentleman who 
wants to marry her if she can get rid of husband No. i.” 


Mr. Ellerton saw his interesting lady client again and, 
armed with the information she gave him, set about his 
task. He found the marriage of Louise Ernestine Leblanc 
and Frederick Morrison duly registered, and he found 
very little more. A few private inquiries in the neighbor- 
hood where the young couple had lived together satisfied 
him that IMr. Morrison was what is vulgarly known as a 
“swell.” The tradespeople, who remembered him, said 
he was quite the gentleman. But fora year no one about 
the place had seen him. The lady paid her bills and was 
much respected. It was supposed that the husband had 
gone abroad to India, or America, or some place like 
that. 

Up in London Mr. Ellerton showed the photograph right 
and left, but could find no one who recognized it, nor 
could he anywhere find among the Morrisons who were 
discoverable through the Post Office Directory anyone to 
answer the description of the missing man. 

One morning, about a fortnight after he had taken the 
affair up, the young lady called upon him in a state of 
great agitation. 

“ We have a clue,” she exclaimed ; “ we must follow 
it up quick. Can you leave with me for Havre to-night,?” 


90 


a' ALES OF TO-DAY, 


‘ ‘ Why for Havre ? 

“ My husband is there. The gentleman who wants to 
marry me has seen him there. Look at this telegram." 

I'he detective took the telegram and read it. It was as 
follows : — “ Believe Morrison is here on board yacht 
with young English lady said to be his wife. Saw him 
being rowed from shore to-day.” 

“ Pray come with me,” urged the agitated lady. “ It 
is most important that you should collect the evidence 
there. I could not. Name your own terms, but come.” 

That night Mr. Ellerton and Mrs. Morrison left South- 
ampton by the Havre packet, and arrived at their desti- 
nation at nine on the following morning. 

The “ gentleman” was on the quay to meet them. 
Mrs. Morrison 'had telegraphed to him. 

‘‘ They sailed this morning,” he said. 

The lady's face fell. So did the detective’s. 

‘‘ Oh, but we shall have them yet, ” said the gentleman. 
“ I’ve ascertained where they’ve gone. I have my own 
yacht here. I'm having some little repairs executed, or I 
would start now. But we can start this evening and make 
the run in twelve hours. We shall be anchored close by 
them to-morrow morning, .and by making some excuse or 
other, Mr. Ellerton can board your husband’s yacht at 
once. ” 

The detective looked at the lady for instructions. 

“Oh, yes, ” she said, “certainly. If they escape us 
now, we may lose all trace of them. Are you sure that 
we shall find them at this place ” 

“ Certain, ” replied the gentleman. “ I have made 
friends with one of the sailors, and obtained full informa- 
tion from him.” 

Making the appointment for seven that evening, the 
gentleman left them, and Mrs. Morrison went to an hotel. 
In the evening, to the regret of the two men, Mrs. 
Morrison declared that she was unable to make the 
journey. She was quite knocked up, and was afraid she 
was going to be ill. What was to be done } To delay 
would be to lose the fugitives. Ultimately it was agreed 
that Mr. Ellerton and the gentleman should proceed alone. 
At the time appointed, they were rowed out to a small 
yacht which was lying in the river. 

There were two sailors on board the yacht, and a man 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


91 


whom the gentleman addressed as captain. Immediately 
the passengers were on board, the anchor was heaved, 
and the little vessel started on her voyage. The detective 
smoked a cigar or two on deck, and was then invited to 
turn in. He was conducted by the gentleman to a berth 
in the little cabin below, and feeling sleepy he turned in, 
and was soon in the land of dreams. 

In telling the story of his adventure afterwards, Mr. 
Ellerton could not say how long he slept. He remem- 
bered hearing a confused kind of conversation coming to 
him in his dreams, and, presently, feeling something 
touch him, he opened his eyes. 

He saw two men in the cabin, and one of them had a 
revolver in his hand. 

At first he thought he was still dreaming, then the reality 
came suddenly to him. He recognized the man with 
the revolver. Leaping up from his berth, he exclaimed, 
“ Ned Donovan ! 

The man with the revolver, a big, determined-looking 
fellow of about forty, with a bushy black beard and shaggy, 
overhanging eyebrows, nodded his head and laughed. 

“ Yes, Mr. Ellerton,” he said, “ it’s me, right enough. 
You didn’t expect to have the pleasure of my company, 
did you .? ” 

In a moment the full meaning of the situation burst 
upon the detective. He had been trapped. He was alone 
and defenseless on the high seas with a man who, two 
years ago, had sworn to be quits with him for “ putting 
away ” his pal. 

This man, Ned Donovan, and another, Jack Frampton, 
“ the pal ” who had been “put away,” were the heads of 
one of the most desperate gangs of burglars in the king- 
dom. Ellerton had been the means of capturing Framp- 
ton, who had eluded the police for years. The detective 
had done the job cleverly, and had run his man down 
through aTormer member of the gang who betrayed him. 
Every attempt had been made by the gang to square the 
officer and get him to wink at Frampton’s escape, but he 
sternly refused, and after a desperate struggle, in which 
three of his men were wounded, Ellerton had made a 
prisoner of the redoubtable Frampton, and for the time 
being, had broken up the whole band. Donovan was not 
in the job for which Frampton was taken, but it reached 


92 


TALES OF TO-DA Y. 


the detective’s ears that he had sworn to be revenged on 
him for what he called “ his treachery,” and Donovan 
was a man who had an ugly reputation for keeping his 
threats. 

Instinctively Ellerton looked round him for a means of 
escape. 

Donovan turned to the other man, who was no other 
than Mrs. Morrison’s friend. “He’s caught in a rat-trap 
himself this time, Bill,” he said, “ and he don’t like it.” 

“ What are you going to do ? ” asked the detective, with 
an effort, ‘ ‘ murder me ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” replied Mr. Donovan, “ we’re going to help 
you to escape. You’re not comfortable here and you 
don’t like the company, so we’re going to let you get out 
and walk away.” 

“ Very well, ’’said the detective, trying to appear calm, 
“ it’s your turn now, Ned, and I don’t suppose you’ll let 
the chance slip. But what I did was fair and square, and 
I should have thought you were too sensible a chap to 
have looked upon it as anything but a business transac- 
tion. ” 

“ You’re a cool hand, John Ellerton,” replied the burglar, 
“ and I admire you for it. But I swore that I’d settle you 
for what you did to Jack, and I’ve worked too hard to get 
the chance to give it away when it’s come.” 

“ Is there any hurry.? ” 

“ No ; so long as you’ve left the ship by day-break you 
can take it easy.” 

“Very well; then perhaps you’ll tell me before I go 
who Mrs. Morrison is, and who put her up to work the 
game so cleverly. I’m curious to know that.” 

“ Delighted to give you the information, old fellow. 
Mrs. Morrison is Ned Frampton’s wife ! ” 

“The deuce she is ! Then who is the young fellow 
I’ve been fooled into looking after ? ” 

‘ ‘ That was her brother, my boy. After Ned was lagged 
she and her brother took a furnished house at Kingston, 
and some of our mob used it to stow things in that couldn’t 
be put on the market, ^he was square enough at first, 
and didn’t know what Ned was. It was quite a love 
affair I can teU you. But she’s got foreign blood, you 
know, and directly we told her that you had nailed Jack 
in a shabby way, she was as hot on for revenge as any 


fALM OP TO-i)AT. 


93 

of us. You might have looked a long time before you 
found her brother. He went to America a year ago.” 

‘ ‘ But the marriage. I saw the certificate — she married 
a man named Morrison.” 

“Bosh! We knew when we made up the plant for 
her to go to you that the first thing you'd ask to see was 
the marriage certificate, and that you might go to the 
church or to Somerset House to try and get a clue to the 
husband that way, and so we picked out the marriage of 
a cousin of hers for you, who married a man named 
Morrison. They live in the north. That's how Ned's 
wife came to take the name of Morrison when she went 
to Kingston. She couldn’t call herself Frampton, for very 
good reasons, and so she borrowed her cousin’s husband’s 
name. We thought of all these things and made them 
fit, you bet, before we sent the girl to you. Now, are 
you satisfied ? ” 

“ Quite,” said the detective. “ It was a capital plant, 
and it has been splendidly carried out. It has been so 
successful that I don’t see why you should finish it up 
with a murder that won’t do you the slightest good.” 

“It won’t do me any harm, and I swore to Ned when 
I got a message to him before his trial that you should 
pay with your life for the trick you’d played him. You 
won’t be the first man I’ve had to settle in the way of 
business, will he. Bill ? ” 

The “gentleman ” who during the previous conversa- 
tion had sat an unobserved spectator of the scene smiled 
approvingly at his friend. 

“ No, Ned ! ” he said, “ nor the last, I dare say.” 

“Now, Mr. Ellerton,” said Ned Donovan, “if you’re 
quite ready, come on deck. You won’t like the company 
there any more than you do the company here, for we’re 
all a bad lot, I assure you. If you knew what a game 
we’re carrying on with this little vessel you’d be able to 
tell Scotland Yard and the French police something that 
would open their eyes so wide they’d have a bother to 
shut ’em again. ” 

“I can guess,” said the detective, “ but I don’t want to 
know— then when I get ashore I needn’t give any infor- 
mation. ” 

“ When you get ashore you can give as much informa- 
tion as you like,” was the reply. “Come on.” 


94 


TALES OF TO-LAY. 


“ What am I to do on deck? ” 

Nothing ! Just step over the side of the boat and say 
good-bye. If you want assistance, wedl give it you.” 

“You mean to throw me into the sea ?” said the de- 
tective, setting his teeth and striving to hide his terror. 

“ If you won’t go without throwing — yes ! ” 

The detective cast one wild glance round the little cabin. 
Before him stood the man who had sworn to have his 
life, and that man was armed. Here there were two to 
one. On deck there would be five to one, for Ellerton 
never doubted that the two sailors and the captain were 
part of the desperate gang into whose clutches he had 
been trapped by the beautiful wife of Ned Frampton. 

With death so imminent his courage deserted him, and 
he altered his tone. He determined to try and persuade 
the men that their deed could be discovered. He would 
tell them that he had posted his wife a letter stating that 
he was going on board a yacht, and that inquiries would 
be made if he were missing. The authorities at Havre 
would be able to describe the vessel, and 

He was making his tale as plausible as he could when 
suddenly he came to a dead stop, and uttered a cry of 
horror. There was a fearful crash, the sound of men 
rushing to and fro upstairs, and then the water began to 
l)our into the cabin. 

With a fierce oath Ned Donovan burst open the cabin 
door and made a rush for the deck. Ellerton followed 
him. He saw a great black hull looming out of the 
water, he felt the vessel on which he stood shiver and 
tremble, and then with one convulsive pitch it went down 
under the black waters of the sea. 

When Ellerton opened his eyes again he was lying 
wrapped in blankets in a cabin, and a gentleman in the 
uniform of a ship’s doctor was standing by him. 

“ That’s better, ” said the doctor; “you’ll be all right 
presently.” 

“ How did it happen ?” gasped the detective. 

“ We ran you down. It was your people’s fault, they 
carried no lights.” 

“ Where are the others ? ” 

“There are no others. You were the only one that 
came to the surface again. We waited about till there 
was no hope, but you were the only man we saved.” 


TAtt:s OF TO-BAT. 


95 

Ellerton’s Private Enquiry Office and Detective Agency 
is now a flourishing concern. The corner has been turned 
at last and clients are plentiful, and they are of the right 
sort. But Mr. EUerton, though a brave man, is always 
very cautious when a lady client commissions him to 
look after a missing friend or relative. He can never 
quite dismiss from his mind how very nearly a lady client 
who wanted a missing husband traced caused him to be 
“a missing detective.” But for that lucky collision, 
which sank the burglars' yacht, Mrs. Morrison would 
have succeeded in her endeavor to hand the captor of 
Jack Frampton over to the vengeance of liij pal, Ned 
Donovan. 

It is perhaps unnecessary to state that when Mr. Eller- 
ton went to Kingston-on-Thames he found that the fur- 
nished house formerly occupied by his beautiful lady 
client was “ to let.” 


V. 

WILL ORPINGTON. 

Polly, dear, just run out and look at the public-house 
clock, will you .? Tm getting worried about father. It 
must be half-past six if it's a minute.” 

Polly Orpington, a tall, pretty girl of fifteen, who was 
working at her sewing machine, and singing as she 
worked, left off for a minute, and looked at her elder 
sister. 

“ What a fidget you are, Liz,” she said. “You’re al- 
ways imagining something’s happened. Father will be 
home directly. And I’m sure it’s not half an hour since 
the clock struck six.” 

Lizzie Orpington confessed that she was a fidget ; but 
it had always been a habit of hers to fidget about father. 
In the days gone by she had good reason to grow 
anxious, poor girl, when her father was late home : for it 
generally meant that he had stopped at a public-house and 
taken his “ tea” there, instead of coming home to it; and 
she knew what that would mean. 

For ten years the Orpingtons had lived in the little back 


T'ALES OF f 0-1) AY. 


96 

street in South London, in the three rooms which they 
now occupied. The locality was what is commonly 
called a “slum but their house was one of the best, and 
their three rooms were perhaps the neatest and tidiest 
rooms in the whole neighborhood. 

The history of the family was a strange one, but by no 
means an uncommon one. The slums of London are full 
of family romances. The cheap tenement-houses and 
the back streets and the low lodging-houses of the great 
city are not inhabited solely by struggling artizans and 
the poor earning precarious livelihoods. Mixed up with 
the people who have inherited poverty for generations are 
men and women who have seen better days, the human 
wreckage of some great storm which has swept the ocean 
of their life. Here you may find the broken-down pro- 
fessional man who has drifted to begging-letter writing, 
the bankrupt trader who has come to costermongering, 
the ex-military man of good family who, having worn out 
all his friends by his evil ways and improvidence, has at 
last to go to the docks and the waterside in search of a 
day s work in order that he may have a crust to eat, a rag 
to his back, and a roof to cover him. I have known a 
clergyman and his wife living in one room in the slums ; 
the man earning a living by making penny toys for sale 
in the street, while the woman went out charing and doing 
odd jobs for the small shopkeepers in the neighborhood. 
This clergyman’s brother was at the time a high dignitary 
of the Church, and the woman’s relatives moved in the 
best society. People of this class do not come to the 
slums all at once. They drift there by degrees, having 
at last cut themselves off from all assistance on the part 
of their friends by their bad conduct. It is useless to keep 
on giving money to men and women^ even though they 
be your relatives, if it all goes into the pockets of the 
publican. This is the history of nine-tenths of the 
“wreckage ” one meets with in poor neighborhoods. 

John Orpington, the father of the two girls who are now 
waiting anxiously for him to come home to tea, belongs 
to the “wreckage class.” Twenty years ago he inherited 
from his father a large fortune, which was invested in a 
big manufacturing business, of which John, on his father’s 
death, became the head. John Orpington married a 
beautiful and amiable girl, rather below him in social 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


97 

position, but as staunch and true and brave a little wife 
as ever a man was blessed with. In spite of this good 
influence young Orpington “went wrong. ’’ He was a 
born gambler, and in addition to a love for tlie turf he 
M'^as a great card player. He neglected his business, he 
gambled away enormous sums of money, and he became 
a victim of that most terrible of all curses, intemperance. 
In a few years the business was ruined and the fortune 
spent. He was made a bankrupt, and his home had 
to go. 

Instead of putting his shoulder to the wheel to retrieve 
the past, Orpington endeavored to drown his sorrow and 
remorse in deeper potations than ever, with the result 
that he lost the situation in a commercial house which 
friends of his late father obtained for him, acquired a 
character for being “a bad egg,” and was at last aban- 
doned to his own resources. 

Penniless and broken in health, with a delicate and 
heart-broken wife and three children — a boy and two little 
girls — he eventually drifted to the great city, and after en- 
during the most terrible privations, at last succeeded in 
obtaining employment as a laborer at a wharf on the 
Thames. 

The poor wife died shortly afterwards. The trouble 
and the privation had been too much for her. Kneeling 
by her bedside and holding her wasted hand in his, John 
Orpington took a solemn oath never to touch “the drink” 
again. They were the last words that fell upon the dying 
woman’s ears, and her face brightened as she heard them. 
There was hope in her heart at that supreme moment for 
her husband and for the children. 

John Orpington kept his oath, but he was too proud to 
go back as a reformed character and ask help again of 
those who had been so cruelly deceived by him.. They 
might have helped him — probably they would not have 
done so, for he had tried their faith in him too severely 
in the past. After his wife’s death he lived on in the same 
three rooms with his children, going to his work in the 
morning and returning at night ; some kindly women 
among the neighbors looking after the youngest child 
whilst the others were away at the Board school. 

As the children grew older, Lizzie, the elder girl, be- 
C^rne father’s little housekeeper, and Willie, the boy, by 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


98 

his cleverness at his books, earned the reputation of being 
“quite a scholar/' Polly, the younger, was still “the 
baby,” and was the pet of the family. 

The wages of a waterside laborer are not large, but 
they enabled John to pay his rent and keep his children 
decently. When Willie was twelve, and had by his clever- 
ness attracted the attention of the school authorities, a 
stroke of good fortune befell the boy. A gentleman 
offered to give him the opportunity of emigrating to 
Canada, where it was believed he would have a chance of 
doing well. The boy was wild to go, and John yielded 
to his wish. There was very little hope for him in the 
slums ; at best he could but be an errand boy. 

So it came about that Willie Orpington emigrated and 
did well. His letters home were full of glowing descrip- 
tions of how well he was treated on the farm where he 
was employed, and in time, being a “scholar,” he ob- 
tained a better position, keeping the farmer's accounts, 
writing his letters, and managing his commercial trans- 
actions. Willie sent money home occasionally, which 
was a great help to the family in the hard winter times 
when frequently the head of it was out of work. 

And so things went on for nine years, when at the 
time this story opens Willie was 21, and still in Canada, 
Lizzie was 18 and Polly 16, and John Orpington was still 
a waterside laborer. 

The evening that Lizzie grew so fidgety because her 
father was a little late in coming home to tea proved to 
be an eventful one for the family. Father arrived at last, 
and was heartily welcomed by his two daughters, and was 
soon ensconced in his chair by the fire, and the table was 
pulled up close to his elbow and his tea poured out, and 
his thick bread and butter was temptingly displayed on 
the one good plate that was a remnant of their former 
prosperity. 

John Orpington had soon finished his tea, then he lit 
his pipe and prepared to spend a happy domestic evening 
talking to his two girls while they sat beside him and 
did their needle-work. 

Somehow or other the conversation wandered that 
evening back to the old times. Polly was never tired of 
hearing of the big house in which her father and mother 
had once lived. To her the story of that past prosperity 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


99 

was like a fairy tale, and she declared it did her good to 
think that they had been “somebody” once. 

While they were talking a knock came at the kitchen 
door — the kitchen and sitting-room of the slums are one 
— and Polly, thinking it was one of their fellow lodgers 
come to borrow a saucepan or to gossip, said “ Come in.” 

To the astonishment of the family, when the door was 
pushed open, there entered a tall, thin young man who 
was a stranger to them. 

“I beg your pardon if I'm mistaken, ” he said raising 
his hat, “but a man I met at the front door told me these 
were the rooms occupied by a Mr. John Orpington. ” 

“Quite right, sir, ” said Orpington, rising. “I am John 
Orpington — what do you want with me.?” 

“ Only to ask you a few questions if you will be so 
good as to answer them. May I — ah — sit down ? ” 

Polly placed a chair for the young man, and he sat 
down on the extreme edge of it, and putting his hand in 
his coat packet drew out a bundle of papers. 

Instantly an idea flashed across Polly's brain. She read 
the Young Ladies' Journal in her spare time, and she was 
sure this was some one come to tell them that they had 
come into a fortune — perhaps — who knows.? — into a title. 

“Your name, sir, is John Orpington. I have had some 
difficulty in tracing you, but I believe that you are the 
Mr. John Orpington who was formerly in business in the 
North of England, trading as Orpington and Co. ? ” 

“That is quite right, sir.” 

“And — er — you are the son of John Orpington who 
married — er — will you kindly tell me your mother’s 
name .? ” 

“My mother was a Miss Ashworth — Elizabeth Ann 
Ashworth. ” 

“Good — that settles it. I am not mistaken. Mr. Or- 
pington I congratulate you, sir.” 

“On what?” 

“On what, sir? On the fact that under the will of the 
late Simeon Ashworth — your mother’s only brother who 
has lately died — you inherit the whole of his property, 
which is worth considerably over one hundred thousand 
pounds ! ” 

“I knew it,” screamed Polly. “Oh Father^ I knew it 
when he first came in.” 


lOO 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


Lizzie let her work fall into her lap and could only 
stare open mouthed at the stranger. 

John Orpington uttered a little cry : then the tears 
rushed into his eyes and he exclaimed, “At last. I thank 
God for my dear children’s sake, but oh, if she could but 
have lived to see this day ! ” 

He was thinking of the brave loving heart that had 
passed away in the dark night of his misfortune, and on 
whose dead eyes this sudden burst of sunshine could 
never fall now. 


It was quite true. The facts were beyond dispute. The 
firm of lawyers, whose clerk the young man was, soon 
convinced John Orpington that fortune had smiled upon 
him again at last, and that he had only to go through cer- 
tain formalities and then take possession of his wealth. 

The Orpingtons were soon established in their new home 
— Uncle Simeon’s pretty little country house. Polly was 
almost mad with delight, and Lizzie, who took things more 
quietly, was happy as one is happy in a beautiful dream. 
She hadn’t quite convinced herself yet that she wouldn’t 
suddenly wake up and find herself back again in the 
little kitchen in the London slum, with her work in her lap 
and Polly laughing at her for dropping off to sleep in her 
chair. 

As soon as the news was confirmed a letter was sent to 
Willie, asking him to come home. His position was a 
very different one to what it had been. He was a young 
gentleman, the only son of a man with a large fortune, 
and he must come home to take his place in the new 
sphere in which they moved. 

The girls were as delighted at the idea of having their 
brother back as they were at their altered circumstances. 
When Willie went away Lizzie was only nine and Polly 
was only seven ; nine years is a long time, and they could 
only just remember him. 

Mr. John Orpington — “John Orpington, Esq.,” as he 
now was — soon settled down to his new condition. When 
one has once been rich and lived a life of ease, it is not 
very hard to go back to one’s old habits. But the lesson 
of the bitter past had not been thrown away, and Mr. Or- 
pington determined that he would make the most of his 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


loi 

sudden good fortune, and take the rest and peace that had 
come to him in his middle age philosophically. 

He rested all his hopes upon his boy now. The girls 
would get sweethearts and make good marriages, and Will 
would come back and be his right hand, and take his place 
when he died. 

How proud his poor wife would have been to see her 
dear ones happy and prosperous again. As he sat in his 
beautiful dining-room in the evening, and smoked his 
cigar, John’s eyes rested lovingly on his two pretty daugh- 
ters, but they would now and then wander to the chair 
opposite him, in which his poor wife would have sat had 
God spared her to him. 

The girls had long ago calculated how soon their brother 
Willie would arrive. They got a room ready for him, 
which was called Willie’s room, and they made it as pretty 
as hands and money could make it, while their father 
looked on happy and proud, and full of delight at the idea 
of seeing his boy home again — the “young master,” and 
the heir to all the wealth and comfort around him. 

It was just about the time that they had calculated Wil- 
lie would be due that they received a telegram from 
Liverpool : “ Arrived safely ; with you to-morrow. Will.” 

And on the morrow a fly drove up to the house, laden 
with luggage, and a handsome young fellow stepped out 
of it. The girls and their father were out in the grounds 
in a moment. “My boy!” exclaimed Mr. Orpington. 
His arms were held out, but suddenly he paused. “ How 
yonhccve changed. Will,” he exclaimed. “Why, I shouldn’t 
have known you.” 

“ Yes, dad, I have,” exclaimed the young fellow, with 
a laugh. “ Roughing it out yonder does alter a fellow, 
and nine years makes a difference.’’ He kissed his father 
heartily, and then turned to the girls. 

“Why, Lizzie,” he said, “how you have grown; and 
you too, Polly. Good gracious me, it seems hardly pos- 
sible that you’re the two little girls I can remember.” 

Taking Lizzie’s hand he stooped to kiss her. 

Almost instinctively the girl shrank back, and a deep 
blush covered her cheeks. It seemed so odd for this hand- 
some young fellow to be kissing her. 

But she laughed and held her cheek to him, and then 
kissed him in return. 


TALES OF T0-1)A T. 


loi 

“ It seems odd at first, Will, dear,’’ she said. ‘‘ We are 
really almost strangers, but you are my brother, and I 
suppose I shall understand that you are by-and-by.” 

“I hope so, Liz,” said Will, and then he turned to 
Polly. 

Polly was less bashful, and she put her arms about her 
brother’s neck and gave him a real sisterly hug. 

And then father and son and the two sisters all went 
into the house together, and were soon at their ease and 
talking about old times. 

Will had forgotten, in that long nine years in a new 
country, much of the old days, but things came back to 
him as they reminded him of them, and before the day 
was over the little feeling of strangeness had worn off, and 
they were all in the highest spirits and full of plans for 
the future, and the young gentleman from Canada was 
fully established in the house as the young master. 

That night, when the girls went to bed, leaving Will 
and their father together, they had a long talk about their 
‘ ‘ new brother. ” 

“Isn’t he handsome, Liz said Polly. “Oh, I’m so 
glad he is. You know I was half afraid he’d come back 
ugly and awkward.” 

Lizzie agreed that he was very handsome, 'but do what 
she would she could not shake off the strange feeling that 
had come upon her when her brother first gave her a 
brotherly kiss. 

What that feeling was she couldn’t say. All she could 
explain to herself was that Will wasn’t what she’d expected 
him to be ; and that feeling was a very long time in wear- 
ing off. 


A month had passed since Mr. Will Orpington returned 
to the bosom of his family, and his father was far from 
happy. 

He didn’t like to confess it even to himself, but he was 
disappointed in Will. The young gentleman had com- 
menced to give himself airs, and to indulge in extravagant 
habits. He wanted more money than his father thought 
he ought to have. He went up to London and made a 
fearful number of purchases, and ordered the most expen- 
sive things he could get in every direction. His father, 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


103 

seeing now things were going, ventured to remonstrate, 
but Will laughed the matter off. 

“ Come, dad,” he said, “you mustn’t be stingy. Look 
what a lot of lost time I’ve got to make up for.” 

Will was making up for lost time with a vengeance. 
He got in with the fastest set of young fellows in the 
neighborhood, and became quite a “sportsman.” His 
extravagance knew no bounds. Horses arrived which 
he had purchased, a dog cart, a mail phaeton, and a 
tilbury, and then he told his fafher that he must build 
new stables at once, as the old ones hadn’t half enough 
accommodation. 

He went to London for a week, saying that he wanted 
to see a friend who had come over with him from Canada 
in the same ship, and though his father gave him a com- 
fortable sum to take with him, he wrote home in a couple 
of days for a further large amount, saying that he had 
made a purchase and must complete. When he came 
back again he was wilder in his notions than ever, and 
told his father that he had seen a capital place to let in 
London which would just suit them for a town house, 
and he had begun to negotiate for it. It was just the 
place they wanted, and the girls must go up for the 
London season, and they would have to give balls and 
dinner-parties of course. 

John Orpington was grieved and shocked at the ex- 
travagant notions his son had brought home, but he was 
horrified when he found that the young man had also 
plunged into the excitement of betting, and was backing 
horses for large sums in all the principal races. 

With the example of his own fate before him, Orpington 
was paralyzed with fear at this new discovery. His son 
was treading step by step the same road to destruction 
which his father had previously travelled. 

Lizzie had long ago discovered that her father was un- 
happy about Will, and she shared her father’s anxiety. 
She was bitterly disappointed in Will. She did not like 
to confess it, but she was beginning not to like her brother. 
He was so different to the brother she had pictured in her 
girlish imagination. Polly tried to defend Will ; but 
even she had to confess that he didn’t seem to care much 
for his family, but only for what he could get out of the 
family fortune. 


104 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


The climax was reached when one day Will walked 
into his father s study and declared he must have a 
check for £500. He told his father he owed that amount. 
He refused to explain for what, but he said he had lost 
it, and it was a debt of honor, and it wouldn’t do for the 
family name to be disgraced. 

John Orpington was almost heart-broken. It was too 
cruel. His son, his only son, was going to bring them 
all to ruin again. If he ran through money at this rate 
now what would he hhve run through in a couple of 
years ! Some stop would have to be put to his extrav- 
agance, or it would end in disaster. 

John refused the check. Then there was a furious 
scene. The young man declared that he would get a 
check and sign his father’s name to it, and he must take 
the consequences. 

With that threat he left the room, packed his portman- 
teau, and without saying good-bye to his father or his 
sisters went up to London, telling the servant to say he 
didn’t know when he should be back. 

That night John Orpington lay awake and worried 
himself into a fever of anxiety over the scapegrace who 
had come to mar everything. The next morning he went 
up to London, determined to see his son and insist upon 
a different course of conduct. He would prevent further 
mischief at all hazards. 

He knew the hotel his son stayed at, and he drove 
there at once. 

He entered the hotel and asked for Mr. Orpington. 

The waiter looked at him and went for the manager. 

The manager came forward at once. 

‘‘You wish to see Mr. Orpington — are you a friend of 
his .? ” 

‘ ‘ I am his father. ’’ 

‘ ‘ Indeed ! Then I’m very sorry to have to tell you 
that your son was arrested here this morning. The police 
will probably give you any further information you re- 
quire. I know nothing of the matter. ” 


As soon as John Orpington had recovered himself 
sufficiently from this terrible blow, he left the hotel. He 
felt like a man in a dream. He could not realize the 
awful truth. 


TALES OF TO-LAY, 


105 

He went to Scotland Yard. An Inspector saw him, 
and in reply to his queries told him that the young man 
had been arrested in consequence of communication from 
the Canadian police. 

“What for.?” asked the unhappy father, his voice 
trembling with fear. 

“For attempted murder. He is accused of — ” 

The Inspector got no further. John Orpington uttered * 
a low cry and fell heavily to the ground. A doctor was 
called. He pronounced the attack to be an apoplectic 
fit, and ordered the immediate removal of the patient to 
the Hospital. 

When John Orpington s senses gradually returned to 
him he was lying in a hospital ward. 

“How long have I been here?” he asked of a nurse 
who was just going past his bed. 

“Only a day or two — how do you feel ? ” 

“I don’t know — I — let me think. Ah, I remember all 
now — my son ” 

“ Hush, don’t talk. Wait till the doctor’s been. If you 
talk now you may get worse again.” 

That .afternoon Mr. Orpington was pronounced to be 
sufficiently well to see visitors. 

The visitors who arrived were Lizzie and Polly, who 
had come to London on receipt of the news of their 
father’s illness, and had been every day to see him, hop- 
ing he would be well enough to recognize them. 

They were very quiet as they were afraid of exciting 
him. But he spoke quite coolly and calmly, and the 
doctor said the other visitors might come in. 

Then there entered a young man with a face rather 
pale, as though he had recovered from a long illness, who 
came gently up to the sick man’s bedside. 

John Orpington looked at him in wonder. He seemed 
to know the face, and yet — 

Presently the young man took his hand and said, 

" Dad, don’t you know me ? ” 

“ Will ! They — they told me you were arrested.” 

“Father,” cried Lizzie, “ this is Will, our brother, the 
real Will.” 

John Orpington couldn't understand ; there couldn't be 
two Wills. 


io6 


TALES OF TO-DA Y. 


The young Tnan saw his perplexity. “It’s all right, 
dad,” he said; “ that other fellow was an imposter — 
worse than that, for the villain tried to murder me. He 
thought he had done so and could palm himself upon 
you as your heir. Liz tells me he succeeded, but he 
won’t do much more mischief now. He’s safe between 
the four walls of a prison and he’ll have to answer for his 
.villainy.” 

“Thank God!” exclaimed Orpington, as soon as he 
realized the meaning of Will’s words, “thank God that 
scamp is not my son. If he had been, I think I should 
have died of shame.” 


When John Orpington was well enough Will told him 
the whole story of the strange adventure which had be- 
fallen him after he had received the news of his father’s 
sudden good fortune, and explained how it was that an 
adventurer, whose resemblance to him had been a matter 
of comment in the colony where they both lived, had 
been able to put into execution an artfully designed plot 
to pass himself off as John Orpington’s long absent son, 
and enjoy for a time the advantages of the wealth that had 
come to the family. 


AN EMIGRANT’S STORY. 

(will ORPINGTON, CONTINUED.) 

John Orpington recovered but slowly from the illness 
which had been brought on by the shock of finding that 
his son, who, since his return from the colonies had 
caused him so much anxiety, had been arrested for 
murder. 

As soon as he was able to bear the strain of a long in- 
terview the convalescent learned from his real son the 
true facts of the case. 

“You know how I got on, dad, after I arrived at the 
farm. I didn’t write you often, not so often as I should 
have done, I know, but out there letter writing was about 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


107 


the last thing we thought of. Still I let you know that I 
was well and comfortable, and when I could I sent a 
little money home.” 

“You did, Will. You were a good son,” said his 
father, clasping the young man’s hand affectionately. 

“Soon after I arrived, and had shown Mr. Wilson, the 
farmer who gave me my first job, that I was willing to 
work, he began to take an interest in me, and so did his 
wife. They were very nice people ; not what would be 
called rich folks, but comfortably off, and they were 
reckoned very good to their hands. 

When I first went I had to look after horses and do odd 
jobs about the place, but one day I happened to be in the 
room when the farmer was swearing because he couldn’t 
get some figures right that he’d got down on paper. 
They were his accounts, and he always had a bad time 
with them. 

I asked him to let me look at the figures ; perhaps I 
could make them come right. 

Mr. Wilson stared at me, and his wife, who was sitting 
opposite to him, looked up from her work and laughed. 

“Let me look, if you please, sir,” I said. “I think if 
you’ll tell me what it is that bothers you I may be able to 
put it right. ” 

“Do you understand arithmetic ? ” 

“ Oh yes, I took a prize in arithmetic at my school.” 

“Did you, my lad?” said the farmer. “Well, if you’ll 
make these darned figures make sense of themselves, you 
shall take a prize here.” 

I went over all the items and checked the figures and it 
wasn’t long before I found out where Mr. Wilson had got 
wrong. 

It was a simple sum in arithmetic that I had done, but 
it made a great impression on the farmer and his wife, 
and after that I had all his accounts to check, and finding 
I could write a good readable hand he used to give me all 
his letters to write, and I was a good- deal in the house, 
and was well treated, though they didn’t give me much 
more money, as they were rather near sort of people. 

However I was quite contented, for I liked the life, and 
not having so much out-door work to do I managed to 
find time to read a good bit and to improve myself in 
in many things. 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


io8 

The men about the place were all decent fellows, but 
too old for me to associate with, so I hadn’t many com- 
panions, and there wasn’t much amusement in a place 
like that, so all my spare time ! spent in reading and 
studying. You know, dad, I was always fond of books, 
and I never forgot that we’d been what’s called gentlefolk 
once.” 

“You were right, my boy, to/emember it. Folks can 
come down in the world and still have a bit of pride about 
them.” 

“ After I’d been with the Wilsons about five years there 
were some new people came into the neighborhood. 
They were a family named Sandys from Ontario, and it 
was said they’d lost a fortune in some big speculation, and 
now they were going to settle down here at the farming 
with some money that had been found for them by a rel- 
ative. They took a farm that was in the market called 
“Sprigg’s Farm,” a small place about two miles from us, 
and we soon got to know something of them, as Mr. Wil- 
son, my master, and Mr. Sandys got acquainted and be- 
came great friends, visiting at each other’s houses and 
riding about the country a good deal together. 

Mrs. Sandys was a great invalid, so the house was 
looked after by the daughter, Belle. She was a very 
pretty girl, and only fifteen, but very tall, and that made 
her look a lot older. Her father called her “ Fairy,” and 
she was a household fairy to him, there’s no doubt about 
that, for she was his right hand. 

^The first time she came to our place with her father I 
couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was the nicest girl I’d 
ever seen, and there wasn’t any that came within miles of 
her in our part. 

While the farmers were talking, I took her all over our 
place, and showed her the cattle and the horses, and she 
asked me lots of questions about the country round 
about and the people, and we got quite friendly. Then 
we got talking about England, as she’d heard I was Eng- 
lish, and she was awfully interested in London. She said 
she’d heard and read such a lot about it, and always 
wanted to see it. They were to have gone to Europe the 
year that the smash came she told me. After that, of 
course ever}dhing was altered for them, and they had to 
give up their beautiful home, and come right away and 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


109 

settle down in a new place. I could see that they'd been 
through a bad time, and poor Belle’s face was very sad 
when she spoke about her father’s misfortune. 

As she talked so friendly to me about her troubles, I 
thought there could be no harm in telling her mine. 

We got so interested in each other’s stories that we 
stopped talking for an hour, and forgot all about the old 
folks inside ; and when Mr. Wilson came out and began 
to shout to us, and to say he thought we were lost, I 
couldn’t believe that we’d been away more than ten 
minutes. 

After that we were very friendly, and whenever Belle 
came over she always asked for me, if I was away on 
the land ; and she brought me a horse her father had 
bought her to ride, and asked me to break it in a bit more 
for her, as it was a little more than she could manage as 
it was. 

You may be sure I was glad to do her a service, and I 
soon had that horse right ; and when I took it home and 
she’d tried it and found the difference in it, she paid me 
no end of compliments. Mr. Sandys would have me 
come in and take tea with the family, and there I saw Mrs. 
Sandys for the first time. 

She was a very beautiful woman and a lady. You 
didn’t want to look at her twice to see that ; but she was 
so weak she had to sit in a chair propped up with pillows. 
It was beautiful to see how Belle waited on her hand 
and foot, and how gentle and loving she was. No won- 
der they called her “ Fairy.” No wonder her father was 
proud of her. The house was a picture. I should have 
liked you to have seen, dad, how pretty the rooms were, 
and Belle had arranged everything. She’d just made a 
little palace of that old farm with her fairy fingers. I was 
ready to bet when I saw it that there wasn’t a place like 
it for a hundred miles round, and I said so. That pleased 
the farmer and his wife, and I think it pleased Belle too. 
for she. blushed and said that I wasn’t to put on my Lon- 
don manners, and begin paying compliments instead of 
having my tea. 

When the farmer knew that I was from London he 
looked up and said, 

“ Is that so, Orpington — are you from London ?” 


no 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


“Yes, sir,” I said. “I lived there till I came out here 
two years ago. ” 

“Oh, ”he said, “if you come from London, perhaps 
you know a young fellow named Hewitt there.” 

I laughed at that. 

“London’s a very big place, sir,” I said, “and I dare- 
say there are thousands of Hewitts in it. I don’t know 
anybody of that name. Why do you ask .? ” 

“ Oh, only because we’ve got a young fellow coming 
to us here who’s a Londoner, and his name’s Hewitt. I 
thought you might know something about him. ” 

Then he explained that he’d had an offer through a 
friend of his in Montreal to take a young English lad and 
let him learn the farming at his place. He was to have 
a premium, and the lad’s friends would pay for his lodg- 
ing and board, so he thought it would be rather a good 
thing. 

I didn’t quite know why it was then,* but I didn’t like 
the idea of a young English fellow coming to stay there 
and be near Belle every day. But, of course, I couldn’t 
say that to them, so I talked about something else, and 
wished Master Hewitt at Jericho. 

It was two months after that before I heard of Master 
Hewitt again. 

Belle rode over to our place with a message to Mr. 
Wilson from her father, and she told me that Hewitt had 
arrived. 

‘ ‘ What’s he like } ” I said, hoping that she would say 
that he was a horrid sort of a fellow. 

“ Well, Will,” she said, “ it’s the oddest thing, but he’s 
like you ; so like you that you might almost be brothers, 
and I should think he was about the same age.” 

That made me very uncomfortable, you know, dad, 
because, as I daresay you have guessed, by this time, I 
was very much in love with Belle, and I’d made up my 
mind that as soon as I was old enough, and I saw a 
chance of doing something for myself. I’d ask her to be 
my sweetheart. 

You see this was the nasty part of it. If Belle liked 
me and thought I was nice-looking, and this Hewitt fel- 
low resembled me as much as she said he did, then she 
must like him and think him nice-looking too. And 
he’d be always with her and I should be always away 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


Ill 


from her, and that would give him a very unfair advan- 
tage over me. I didn’t eat my supper that night with so 
much appetite as usual ; and when I went to bed I didn’t 
go to sleep, which was a most unusual thing for me. I 
kept on thinking about this Hewitt fellow, and f thought 
it was very impudent on his part to be like me. I made 
up my mind I’d go to Sprigg’s Farm at the first opportun- 
ity and take the measure of the young gentleman and see 
if he was the sort of fellow who was likely to cut me 
out. 

When I did get to sleep at last. Master Hewitt was evi- 
dently still in my mind, for I had a most terrible dream. 
Knowing what I do now, looking at that dream by the 
light of what happened afterwards, every incident of it 
comes back to me as vividly as though I had just awoke 
from it. 

In my dream Belle and I were walking together by the 
river. I was telling her how much I loved her, and ask- 
ing her to be my sweetheart. She blushed at first, and 
hung her dear little head down, but she didn’t take her 
hand away. I’d got tight hold of that, and wasn’t going 
to let it go. 

“Belle, dear,” I said (in my dream, you know, dad), 
“Belle, dear, you don’t know how I love you, how I’ve 
loved you ever since the first day you came over to our 
farm. I’m nothing here, but I’ve been studying and work- 
ing hard, and I’m bound to get on. If you’ll only say 
that some day you’ll be my little wife, it’ll give me all the 
hope and all the courage I want, and I’ll work and work 
till I’ve won a position and made a home worthy of you. 
Belle, dear Belle, you do love me, don’t you ? ” 

Belle lifted her head, and I could see her beautiful blue 
eyes. There was a bright little tear in each of them. 

“ Will,” she said, “ I’m not going to tell you a story. I 
do love you. very, very much indeed.” 

“And you’ll be my sweetheart.? You’ll let us be en- 
gaged to each other, dear, and you’ll never marry an vbody 
but me .? ” 

“No, Will, I’ll never marry anybody but you.” 

With a cry of joy I put my arm round her, and was 
about to draw her to me and press my lips to hers, when 
she sprang back with a cry of alarm. 

Something had come between us. I looked, and it was 


I 12 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


myself I saw — myself, vet not me, for it was between 
myself and Belle. 

I knew in a minute who it was — it was Hewitt. 

His face was white with rage, and he held his fist 
clenched above my head. 

“You shall never have Belle for your wife,” he cried ; 
“you shall never have any woman for your wife, for I 
mean to kill you.” 

Before I could move or utter a word he drew a knife 
from his belt, and lifting it brought it down again with fearful 
force, burying it to the hilt in my heart. 

As the sharp steel struck into my flesh I uttered a shriek 
and flung my arms up and — and woke up to find myself 
lying on my back and moaning. It was only a night- 
mare, but it was so real, so vivid, that for some moments 
I lay there unable to move. I was almost paralyzed with 
terror. At last my power of will came back again, and 
with an effort I sprang out of bed, and finding the 
matches, struck one and lighted the candle that stood by 
my bedside. 

1 couldn’t summon up the courage to blow it out again, 
even after the first impression of the nightmare had 
passed away. I was thoroughly unnerved. I had never 
been a coward, and up till then I had never known what 
actual fear was, but I give you my word, dad, that the 
dream had made such an impression on me that had any 
one entered the room suddenly I should have screamed ! 

When I went down in the morning the farmer was the 
first to notice that I looked queer. He asked me if I 
wasn’t well. I said it was nothing ; that I thought I’d a bil- 
ious attack. I was heavy over my work and listless all the 
morning, and after dinner, which I couldn’t touch, the 
farmer told me the best thing I could do was to take the 
afternoon and go for a good long ride into the country. 

I was very glad of the permission, so I saddled the 
horse I generally rode and went straight off to Sprigg’s 
Farm. I knew I should have no peace until I had seen 
this mysterious Hewitt, who according to Belle, was so 
like me that he might have been my brother. 

Three months after that, dad, Mark Hewitt and I were 
the greatest “ pals ” in the neighborhood. I had found 
him a nice qgreeable fellow, like me in appearance. 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


113 


certainly — so like me, that when we looked at each other 
as Belle introduced us we both burst out laughing. But 
to my unutterable joy Belle told me she didn’t like him, 
and I fancied he wasn’t the sort of fellow that would go 
falling in love with anybody but himself. Directly my 
mind was easy on that score I felt quite a relief. The 
idea that Belle didn’t like him made me take to him aL 
once. You may laugh, dad, and think that I was begin- 
ning to be jealous nice and early, but that was the feeling 
I had, and I couldn’t help it. You see, being all alone 
and in a new world, and having to shift for yourself 
makes you “grown up” pretty early, and I fancied my- 
self a young man, though I suppose everybody looked 
upon me as only a boy. 

You may be sure when Belle told me that there was 
something about Hewitt that she didn’t like, I wasn’t 
going to tell her she was a goose. I was too glad to 
have her that way of thinking, but I didn’t share her pre- 
judice. Hewitt and I “cottoned to each other,” as the 
saying is, from the first, and in a month or two we be- 
came constant companions in our leisure time. Hewitt 
told me his story and I told him mine, and, of course, I 
told him all about you and the girls. 

When I got a letter from home I used to read it to him, 
and he got to know you all quite well through me. He 
soon found out that I was in love with Belle, and he prom- 
ised me he wouldn’t breathe a word to anybody about 
it. That was my secret, and I think I rather liked it be- 
ing a secret, fancying it was more romantic. Hewitt 
was as frank with me as I had been with him, and told 
me all about himself. His father and mother were dead ; 
they were gentlefolks, but had been poor, and he had 
been taken by his uncle, who had promised to give him 
a start in life. “And a nice start he’s given me,” said 
Hewitt, “sending me out to this God-forsaken place, and 
telling me it’s my only chance, and that it’s all he can do 
for me, as he’s a married man with a large family himself. 
It’s a nice lookout for me. Oh, Lord, I wish I’d been 
going to be rich — I shall never make a farmer. ” 

He was quite right there — he never would, for he 
didn’t take to it at all, and if it hadn’t been for the pre- 
mium and the yearly money paid for his keep I expect 
Mr. Sandys would have got rid of him pretty quick. 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


114 

He was always talking about what a jolly life he’d have 
when he grew up if he only had money, and once he said 
to me that he didn’t think there was much he’d stick at to 
make it. 

I thought he was only bragging — talking wild like 
young fellows will sometimes. I was so grateful to him 
for not falling in love with Belle that I didn’t like to think 
he was really a bad-hearted fellow. 

Beside he was very useful to me and helped me with 
Belle. He used to invite me to come over sometimes of 
an evening, and that gave me an excuse for being at 
Sprigg’s farm. And when he and I and Belle went out 
for a walk about the place together, he’d go off and leave 
us alone, which I thought very nice and gentlemanly 
of him. 

After he’d been at Sprigg’s farm about three years he 
wrote home and got some money from his uncle. I sup- 
pose he told him he could do some good with it and he 
wouldn’t ask him for -any more; and then he went away 
and I didn’t see anything of him for some time. 

He wrote me once or twice from the town, he’d gone 
to, and said he was doing ‘‘middling,” but I gathered 
from his letters that he’d got in with a bad set, and was 
rather down on his luck. 

All this time I was working away and keeping in 
Farmer Wilson’s good books, and though I got a bit more 
money it wasn’t much, but I’d made myself master of 
the business, and I believed that when I was a bit older 
I should be able to get into something better, and in due 
time, perhaps, launch out on my own account and be in- 
dependent. I had wonderful dreams, I can tell you, dad, 
of what I was going to do, and I told Belle, and she was 
as enthusiastic as I was. It was settled that we were 
sweethearts, though we didn’t tell anybody else. I was 
to make a lucky hit, and we were to be married and have 
a beautiful place of our own, and then we were going to 
send for you and the girls to come out to us. 

That’s how things went on till about a year ago. At 
that time I’d done several good strokes of business for the 
farmer, and one day he told me that he was thinking of 
taking another farm and that he’d put me in to manage 
it, and give me a share. 

It was just after the farmer had told me this that 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


I15 

Hewitt turned up again. He came back again looking 
rather seedy and out of elbow, and got taken on as clerk 
at a store in a little town a few miles from us, just near 
enough for me to see something of him, as I often had to 
go over to the town on business. 

He didn’t say much about what he’d been doing, 
only that he’d had rather bad luck. 

I was glad to have him back again, for I wanted some- 
body I could make a confidant of, and of course I told 
him what my expectations were, and how Belle and I had 
made up our minds to get married as soon as I’d got a 
position that would let me go to her people and ask them 
to let me be their son-in-law. 

Then came the wonderful news. I’d been away for 
two days on the farmer’s business, and when I got back 
there was your letter waiting forme, telling me that you’d 
come into a fortune, and that I was to come back, and 
that we should be gentlefolks again and have everything 
that we could want. 

I couldn’t believe it at first. But as soon as I had real- 
ized what it meant, and that you wanted me to come back 
to England, I went off straight up to Sprigg’s farm and 
told Belle, and then I saw her father and mother and told 
them, and then I summoned up my courage and asked 
them if Belle and I might be engaged to be married. 

I expected it would be a bit of a surprise to them, but, 
bless you, it wasn’t at all. Mr. Sandys laughed and said 
he’d seen what was in the wind all along, and asked me 
if I thought he was blind. Poor Belle blushed when her 
father said he’d known we were in love with each other 
all along, but her mother told her there was nothing to be 
ashamed of, for I was a steady hard-working young man, 
and if they hadn’t thought highly of me they shouldn’t 
have allowed me to come there so often. 

When they heard that I had to go back to England, and 
that you wanted me to stop there, they hesitated a little. 
They didn’t like the idea of Belle having to live so far 
away from them, and Belle said it would grieve her too 
to have to leave her mother. 

So we talked it over, and then the farmer let out that he 
had an idea of giving up his farm, for which he had a good 
offer, and coming to England, where his wife had relatives. 


TALm OF TO-DAY. 


1 16 

and that perhaps things might be arranged so that after all 
it wouldn’t be such a big break up. 

But it was agreed that Belle and I should be engaged, 
and when I got home I was to tell you all about it, and 
write and let them know what you said, and perhaps by 
that time Mr. Sandys would be able to come to Europe 
with his family. If not I should have to go back and get 
married there. 

After that I sent you a cable, saying that I could start 
for home, and began to make my preparations, which 
didn’t take me long. The draft you sent me in the letter 
was more than enough to bring me home, so I had only 
to draw my savings out of the bank. They were a good 
round sum, for you see I’d been putting every penny by 
to do something with when the chance came. 

One of the first persons who heard the news of my hav- 
ing come into a fortune was Mark Hewitt. The day after 
he heard it he came over to the farm. He congratulated 
me on my good luck and asked me all about it. Of course 
I told him everything. “ By Jove, Will,” he said, “ You’re 
a lucky fellow. You’ll live like a gentleman now for the 
rest of your days, and have your pockets always stuffed 
full of gold and banknotes, and there won’t be anything 
you can’t have. By Jove, what a time I’d have of it if I 
had your chance.” 

We sat smoking and talking, and all of a sudden he 
said “Will, if I ask you to do me a favor will you be 
offended ? ” 

“Certainly not,” I said. 

“Then look here, old chap ; pay my passage to England 
and let me come with you. You’ll be lonely travelling 
by yourself, and I want to get to London badly. . If I can 
see my uncle he’ll give me another start in the old country, 
I know, and I’m sick of the dog’s life I’m leading now. 
I’ll pay you back every penny you advance me as soon 
as I’ve seen my uncle.” 

What was I to say ? It would have been mean to refuse, 
especially as I had plenty of money to spare out of my 
savings, and you’d sent me far more than I wanted. So 
I consented, and it was agreed that Mark Hewitt and I 
were to sail by the same ship. 

A week after that I said good-bye to Belle, promising 
her that she should soon hear from me, and telling her 


TALES OF TO-LAY. 


I17 


the parting wouldn’t be for long, and Mark Hewitt and I 
set out for Quebec, from which place we were to sail for 
Liverpool. 

We didn’t leave together, but we met on the road at a 
place some fifty miles from my starting point. Hewitt 
had begged me not to say to a soul that he was leaving, 
or that he was to be my travelling companion. He ex- 
plained that if it got known he might be prevented, and I 
foolishly gave him the promise and kept it. 

Instead of going direct to Quebec, having a day or two 
to spare, Hewitt persuaded me to make a detour in order 
that he might call on some friends of his who lived in a 
.small town. We sent all the luggage on ahead direct to 
the ship. Hewitt hadn’t much and so it was all sent on 
in my name. 

We arrived at the town, and there Mark, after making 
a few inquiries, found that his friends had moved a few 
miles out. It was not very far, and we agreed to walk. 
To my surprise Hewitt knew every inch of the ground, 
and I soon gathered that he had spent a short time in the 
place on his way out from England. 

Part of our way lay through a wood, and as it was 
very thick and very lonely I was afraid we should lose 
our way and not get back again in time for the night 
train. Hewitt assured me he knew the path, and we 
went on. When we had been in the wood about ten 
minutes the path became so narrow that we could only 
walk one in front of the other. Hewitt went first. Sud- 
denly he turned round. I caught the look on his face 
and started back ; but before I could cry out or de- 
fend myself I felt a sharp pain in my breast, and knew 
that I had been shot. 

I thought I heard a sound as of something moving in 
the wood, but in a moment I fell to the ground. As I fell 
I struck my head violently against the trunk of a tree, and 
in a moment all was darkness, for my senses left me. 

When I came to myself I was in a strange place. It 
was a little whitewashed room, and I was in bed. I 
tried to raise myself and speak, but I was unable to do 
so. I could see a strange face beside me — the face of a 
man — and then all was darkness again. 

When I recovered my senses a little, I discovered that 
I had had brain fever, and that I had been ill for many 


ii8 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


weeks. Even when I recovered sufficiently to see people 
and understand a little I could remember nothing, and 
could give no account of myself. It was three months 
before my senses fully returned and I discovered what 
had happened. At one time the doctors believed that I 
would never recover my reason again, as the injury 
to the head had temporarily affected the brain. 

I had been found lying apparently dead in a wood 
with a pistol clutched in my hand. It was supposed that 
I had attempted to commit suicide. I was carried to a 
cottage hard by, and the people kept me there and sent 
for a doctor, and then it was found that I was too ill to be 
moved. 

As soon as I could remember all the circumstances I 
told the doctor, and the police were sent for. 

• As I had been robbed of my papers as well as the 
money I had about me, it was supposed that Hewitt had 
left for England, believing that I was dead, and that he 
would make use of his likeness to me to palm himself on 
my father as his long-absent son. His knowledge of my 
past history and of my relatives, gained in connection 
with me during many years, and my having read him all 
my letters from home, would help him in his attempt to 
impose on them. It was explained to me that in the place 
in which I was found I might have lain for months undis- 
covered but for an accident, as it was in a part of the 
wood through which there was no thoroughfare, and in 
which a man who had hung himself to a tree had remained 
hanging until he was a skeleton. 

d'his was a legend of the place and had probably been 
known to Hewitt, who had calculated his chances from 
the beginning. No one knew of my journey to the place, 
as it was right out of my route, there was nothing about 
me to prove my identity if found, so far as Hewitt knew, 
as he had taken all my papers from my pocket after I fell, 
and he concluded that if ever I was found I should be 
buried as an unknown suicide. There would be no in- 
quiry for Will Orpington, as Will Orpington personated 
by Hewitt would have arrived safely in London and be 
with his family. 

As soon as the police heard my story they were anx- 
ious to telegraph to England at once, but I begged them 
not to, I wanted to come over myself and see what 


TALm OF TO-DAT. 


119. 

Hewitt had done. It would only make a difference of a 
few weeks, and so it was arranged. I left by the first 
vessel after I was convalescent and immediately I arrived 
here 1 found that a Will Orpington was known, and he 
was discovered by the police to be living at an hotel in 
London. As soon as we were sure of him he was arrested 
at the hotel on a charge of murder. I immediately left to 
see you, and to my horror found that you had been to 
the hotel, heard of the arrest of your supposed son, and 
had been seized with a fit. * 

Now you know the whole story, dad. Since you have 
been ill, Hewitt has been sent back to Canada to take 
his trial, and I have to appear against him there. I must 
go by the next ship ; but I shall soon be back, and I hope, 
dad, when I return I shall bring Belle with me. Lizzie 
and Polly are in love with her already from what I have 
told them, and I’m sure you’ll think her the best little 
daughter-in-law in the world. 

And so John Orpington did. To-day he is as well and 
strong as ever, and he is delighted with his son, and proud 
of his son’s wife. There is no fear of their squandering 
the fortune that came to the Orpingtons after years of 
poverty. Will’s early experiences as a young emigrant 
taught him the value of money, and he has a good little 
domesticated wife to make him contented at home, and 
to assist him in proving that the greatest happiness wealth 
can bring is the power it gives its possessor to do good 
to his less fortunate fellow-creatures. 

Belle’s father and mother came over soon after their 
daughter left for England, and are now settled in the 
old country. They always spend their Christmas at 
John Orpington’s house, and when the two families meet 
they rarely fail to talk of Will’s marvellous escape from 
death, and of the diabolical plot which nearly resulted in 
Mr. Orpington accepting as his heir the scamp who had 
tried to murder his son in order to personate him and 
enjoy his inheritance. 


120 


TALES OF TO-EAT. 


VI. 

CLARA MARKHAM. 

Everybody was remarking how ill Mrs. Markham 
looked — that is to say, everybody who lived in the neigh- 
borhood and occasionally saw the lady when she was 
assisted into the landau and taken for a drive. On these 
occasions Mrs. Markham was always accompanied by 
her husband, Dr. Markham, and her sister, Miss Wesley. 
The attention of the doctor to his invalid wife was re- 
marked upon approvingly by the ladies who stood at 
their windows and saw the care with which he arranged 
the cushions ; and he and Miss Wesley seemed to vie 
with each other as to who could show the poor sufferer 
the greatest consideration. 

A handsome girl was Miss Wesley — tall, graceful, dark- 
eyed and rosy-cheeked — a striking contrast to her mar- 
ried sister, whose figure was bent, whose face was haggard 
and sallow and full of deep lines caused by suffering and 
ill-health. 

When the doctor brought his wife home he was only a 
struggling practitioner, how struggling the tradespeople in 
the district knew better than any one, for they had the 
greatest difficulty in getting their money, and then had to 
take something on account as often as not. 

But after the new Mrs. Markham came home things 
were different ; the doctor’s practice didn’t seem to im- 
prove, but his bills were punctually paid, and it soon be- 
came known that he had married money. 

Of Mrs. Markham before her marriage her neighbors, 
always curious in a suburban district, had been able to 
ascertain very little. She was a delicate, fragile little 
woman, and looked ill when she first came among them, 
and that rather interested them, because it seemed curious 
for a handsome, stalwart young fellow like Markham to 
marry an invalid wife. But it soon leaked out that it had 
been a “ money match ” on the doctor’s side. In some 


TALES OF TO-DAT, 


121 


mysterious way the gossips got hold of the fact that the 
Wesleys were distant relations of Dr. Markham, that they 
lived in the country with their aunt, a very wealthy old 
lady, and that it was at her house that Dr. Markham had 
been in the habit of spending the few holidays that he was 
able to take. 

It also transpired that the aunt had died some twelve 
months previously, and had left the whole of her fortune 
to her elder niece, the younger one having offended 
her in some way not ascertained by the anxious in- 
quirers. 

The whole story of the past waS vague and uncertain, 
and it got mixed up eventually in passing from house to 
house, from Mrs. Jones to Mrs. Brown, from the butcher 
to the baker, from the jobbing gardener who kept the 
garden ill order to the housemaid at No. 13, to whom he 
was paying his addresses. 

But there was no doubt about the present situation, 
which was that Dr. Markham had married the heiress, and 
brought her up to London to be the mistress of his estab- 
lishment — and that, being an invalid, her younger sister 
accompanied her, and was her constant companion, and 
almost her nurse. 

The doctor’s practice, in spite of the improved financial 
position, did not apparently increase. There was a prej- 
udice against him in the neighborhood. It . was under- 
stood that he was not exactly a nice man. 

He didn’t know what was said about him, but attributed 
his failure to the fact of his being a single man. In subur 
ban neighborhoods especially, there is a prejudice against 
young bachelor doctors. It was when he was making up 
his mind that he should never have a chance unless he 
married, that he received intelligence of the death of the 
Misses Wesley’s aunt. He went down to the funeral and 
heard of the will. Then he offered his assistance to the 
young ladies, who were without a male adviser, and 
finally he became engaged to the heiress, and eventually 
brought her back as his wife, and her younger sister ac- 
companied her and took up her residence under the 
doctor’s roof 

Among the most frequent visitors was a Mr. Tom 
Wesley, the young ladies’ brother. This gentleman was 
something in the city.” What, it was hard to define, but 


122 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


it was mentioned that he floated public companies, and, 
judging by his appearance, they had not floated success- 
fully. The gentleman at No. 24, who was himself a 
financial agent, went so far as to declare that Mr. Wesley 
bore a very bad reputation in the city, and was no 
better than an adventurer, and an unlucky one as well. 

Tom Wesley had ceased to be a visitor at the aunt’s 
house a long time before that lady’s death ; but, directly 
Clara married, he became a regular visitor at her hus- 
band’s, and found in the doctor a willing listener to his 
grand schemes for acquiring wealth in the city by bold 
speculation. 

There was, however, one little drawback to the launch- 
ing of these schemes. The doctor was unable to put 
any money into them because his wife had complete 
control of her fortune ; and, although she was generous 
enough so far as legitimate expenses were concerned, she 
refused to hand over the large sums whidh her husband 
and her brother wanted. 

These facts were not known to the neighbors ; they 
were not the kind of gossip servants could easily get hold 
of, but gossip of another kind soon began to circulate 
through the usual channels. 

The cook who lived next door to the Markhams told 
the housemaid opposite, who told her mistress, who told 
all her female acquaintances, who told their husbands, 
that poor Mrs. Markham was far from happy : that the 
doctor was paying so much attention to her sister, that 
the poor lady would have been blind not to notice it, 
and that the servants in the house said it was “ disgrace- 
ful. ” 

‘ ‘ They do say, ” — ^this was imparted by the lady at 
fourteen to the lady at twenty-three in a confidential con- 
versation that they had one evening while taking tea 
together, “that he was really in love with the younger 
one all along, but married the elder sister because of the 
money.” It was some time after this interesting con- 
versation that the neighbors began to notice how very 
much worse Mrs. Markham looked than she had ever 
done before. In the language of the sympathizing female on- 
lookers, she was “ a perfect wreck. ” And when the doctor 
gave her his arm and helped her so tenderly into her car- 
riage, the ladies would exclaim, “ The hypocrite ! ” and 


TALES OF TO-BA F. 


123 

when her sister smoothed out the cushions they would 
say, “ The deceitful hussy ! ” from which it was evident 
that the good ladies thoroughly believed all they had 
heard, and were not inclined to give the incriminated 
couple the benefit of the doubt. 

Whether gossip was on the right track or not, it was 
certain that the doctors wife was rapidly becominp: 
worse. 

The poor lady knew it herself, and her condition alarm- 
ed her. There was no specific disease from which she 
suffered, and yet she grew gradually weaker. Her hus- 
band ridiculed the idea of calling in a doctor. It was the 
old complaint — what she wanted was quiet and care. 
And she had both. 

The only thing that was allowed to upset her was her 
husband’s earnestly expressed wish that she should make 
a will. He pointed out to her that it was advisable that 
she should provide for her sister, and otherwise dispose of 
the property, as according to the terms of her aunt’s will 
the property at her decease would pass to another branch 
of the family unless she (Clara) should otherwise will it 
away. It was probable that this clause was inserted as 
there was a doubt whether Clara would ever marry. If 
she did she had the power to pass the inheritance on to 
the children, if she didn’t, it would naturally revert to the 
old lady’s other relatives. But it could not pass to any- 
one but them in the absence of any legal direction by 
Clara to that effect. 

Mrs. Markham, like many invalids, had a horror of 
discussing her own death, and she didn’t relish the idea 
of making a will at all. But her husband argued with 
her so persistently that at last, for the sake of peace and 
quietness, she consented to do so. A proper legal docu- 
ment was prepared, and the property was left to Dr. Mark- 
ham and the sister, with a small legacy to Tom — and the 
important document was duly witnessed by disinterested 
parties. 

A week after the will had been made, Tom Wesley 
came to the doctor with a magnificent scheme. Ten 
thousand pounds was all that was wanted to float a con- 
cern which in a few weeks would realize a hundred thou- 
sand. The doctor was impressed at once — he saw the 


24 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


chance exactly as Tom saw it, and again he applied to 
his wife. 

But Mrs. Markham was petulant, and this demand put 
her in a temper. “No,” she said, “ you will have my 
money when I’m dead — you must wait till then.” 

From that night Mrs. Markham grew worse with 
greater rapidity than before. She felt so ill that she 
pleaded with the doctor to call in a physician. She had 
taken to her bed by this time, and the doctor promised 
that if she didn’t improve she should have further advice. 

At this time also she began to conceive a violent dis- 
like to her sister. She asked the, doctor to send her away 
and to let her have a proper nurse. 

The doctor said he would do so, and went out. The 
sister did not leave, but the next day a young woman 
from one of the nursing institutions arrived — at least the 
doctor told his wife she was a trained nurse, but as a 
matter of fact she was not. She was a young woman rec- 
ommended by 'Torn Wesley, and Mrs. Markham noticed 
that she had a wedding ring on her finger. 

Mrs. Wilson, as the woman called herself, was a pale, 
pretty, young woman, of about six-and-twenty. She 
was very gentle, but she seemed very nervous. Her face 
was pale, and she had a frightened look in the eyes that 
fidgeted the invalid. 

Two nights after Nurse Wilson had taken up her post 
at the invalid’s bedside, a very strange thing occurred. 

It was one o’clock in the morning, when Mrs. Mark- 
ham woke up. The banging of the front door woke her. 
She opened her eyes and found that the nurse, who slept 
in a little bed near her, was not in the room. But she 
had seen her undress and get into bed two hours pre- 
viously. 

Presently the door opened and the woman, partly 
dressed crept into the room. She had evidently been 
crying and appeared greatly distressed. 

She went straight to the little table in the bedroom, 
picked up the medicine bottle emptied it of the medicine, 
which was white and colorless, and refilled it with cold 
water. 

The patient saw it. 

In a moment the truth flashed across her brain. Her 
husband had b^en slowly poisoning her, Whut had 


TAL2S OP TO-DAY. 


125 

seemed strange to her previously she understood now. 
She had • yielded to her husband’s constant entreaties, 
left him and her sister her money by will, and now he had 
only one desire — to be free from the poor invalid and to 
enjoy her fortune. 

All the man’s desperate villainy came home to the 
poor creature instantaneously. There are moments in our 
lives when, as if by magic, the veil that has hidden the 
situation of affairs from us is torn aside, and a glaring 
light beats down upon the truth and makes every detail 
clear. It was in such a moment as this that the doctor’s 
wife, mastered the details of the infamous plot of which 
she was to be the victim. From that moment she sus- 
pected everybody — her husband, her sister, her brother ; 
they were all in league together — all in league to kill her 
and get her money. 

She did not want to die. She was unhappy, and worn 
out with ill-health and suffering. At one time she had 
felt indifferent to life. She had fallen into that state of 
lethargy which is often induced by long suffering when 
one almost looks forward to death as a boon — as the 
sleep that is to come at last as a long rest after toil and 
trouble. But the sudden revelation of her husband’s 
treachery completely altered her mental condition. She 
was at bay. Her pulse throbbed, her worn-out nerves 
acquired a sudden strength when she was thus suddenly 
brought face to face with the danger which threatened 
her. 

She believed that the deadly work had been going on 
for some time. It might have gone too far already. She 
might even now be past recovery. But she still hoped 
that she might save herself now that she had found a 
friend and ally in the new nurse. 

To this woman, as soon as she had recovered from the 
shock of the discovery, she turned for advice. 

She asked her point blank who she was, and how she, 
a stranger, had discovered a plot which involved such 
ghastly consequences to those who were concerned in it. 

The nurse, who seemed to have lost her self-posses- 
sion, confessed everything to the sick woman. She told 
her that she was Tom Wesley’s wife, that he had married 
her some two years previously, when she was a nurse in 
Charing Cross Hospital, and that for some reason, best 


TALES OF TChDAT. 


1 26 

known to himself, he had kept their marriage from the 
knowledge of his relatives. 

It was Tom who had insisted that she should come and 
nurse his sister. It was Tom who had introduced her to 
the doctor, and told him that she could be trusted. 

Why she was selected she quite understood when she 
discovered the plot. The discovery was due to an acci- 
dent. After she had gone to bed she remembered that 
she had left a book downstairs in which her name, her 
real name was written “Jane Wesley." The servant 
might open it and see the name, and it would be known 
that she was in the house under an alias. She partially 
dressed herself and went downstairs, walking quietly 
so as not to attract attention. 

As she passed the dining room door she heard the 
voice of her husband. She wondered why he should have 
come there so late at night, and without letting her know 
that he was coming. She listened and found that the 
conversation was being carried on by the doctor, her 
husband, and Miss Wesley. 

They said nothing which would have aroused an out- 
sider’s suspicion, butdhey said enough to reveal the fact 
that they were calculating bn the death of the woman she 
was nursing upstairs, and the best way to get a doctor in, 
when she grew worse, who would not suspect too much. 

Controlling her features with a violent effort, she went 
into the room. The occupants were evidently discon- 
certed at her sudden appearance. She explained that she 
had forgotten her book and the reason why she was 
anxious to get it, and they were satisfied. 

Jane Wesley’s confession confirmed the invalid’s worst 
fears. She knew now that she had to fight for her life. 

Her first idea was that in the morning she would insist 
upon a medical man being called in, but she was afraid 
of the consequences of such a course to her husband. 

In spite of all that had happened, the unhappy woman 
loved him — loved him too well to bring upon him the 
punishment that would be his should his guilt be detected. 

Far into the night the two women talked, but before 
the dawn they had agreed upon a plan which was to save 
the wife from her would-be murderers without allowing 
them to suffer for their attempted crime. 

For a week Jane Wesley nursed the patient in a way 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


127 


the doctor never intended. She pretended to give her the 
medicine, but instead of that gave her tonics which she 
had prepared at the chemists. 

At the end X)i the week the doctor was astonished at the 
improvement in his wife’s health, and he at once sus- 
pected the cause. Jane Wesley saw that the counterplot 
was discovered, and again the two women were terrified. 
They both believed that the people who had been wicked 
enough to go as far as the conspirators had done would 
only be made more desperate by a temporary check to 
their machinations. 

There was but one way now for the wife to escape with- 
out betraying her husband by calling in outside aid. She 
must get away from the house and go somewhere where 
he could not find her. Jane Wesley feared that her sister- 
in-law was not strong enough to take a journey, but the 
invalid insisted that she was. On the following day the 
doctor and Miss Wesley went out, as luck would have it, 
both together. The doctor had gone to a patient at the 
other end of London, and Miss Wesley had gone to the 
city to see her brother. 

When the doctor returned he was met in the hall by 
the housemaid. “Oh, sir,” she exclaimed, “Missis is 
gone. ” 

“Good God,” exclaimed the doctor, “When did she 
die ? ” 

“ She’s not dead, sir — she’s gone away — gone away in 
a cab with the nurse.” 

For a moment the doctor could make no reply. He 
stood staring at the girl in blank amazement. Then he 
recovered himself and went up the stairs three at a time 
to his wife’s bedroom. 

It was empty. 

The room was in confusion — dresses and clothes were 
tossed here and there. A trunk had evidently been packed 
in a hurry ; the wardrobes turned over to select the dresses 
and things to be taken away, and Mrs. Markham and Jane 
Wesley were gone. 

The doctor sat down on the empty bed, and stared about 
him. His prey had escaped him. That was bad enough, 
but there might be something worse in the background. 
His wife could only have been taken away in this extra- 
ordinary manner for one reason, and that reason was that 


128 


TALUS OP TO-DAT. 


she and her companion knew that her life was in peril 
while she remained under her husband’s roof. 

As he recognized the situation a cold perspiration burst 
from every pore. What would these two‘ women dp ? 
Would they betray him ? Would his wife go to a medical 
man, or would Jane Wesley go to the police ? Whatever 
their plans might be, he was powerless to alter them. 

Even if he found out where his wife had gone to, he 
could not compel her to return to him. She would then 
declare that he had tried to poison her, and an investiga- 
tion of such a charge would be disastrous to him and to 
his hopes. 

When Miss Wesley came back, the doctor told her the 
news. She completely lost her presence of mind. She 
was convinced that all would be discovered. Clara would 
die from the consequences of the removal and the journey 
in her state of health, and there would be an inquiry into 
the circumstances, and Jane Wesley would be a damning 
witness against them. 

But Jane Wesley was her brother’s wife. She would 
hardly do anything which might involve him in trouble. 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. Tom Wesley had 
done nothing but recommend his wife when they 
wanted a nurse. The guilty parties themselves could 
alone implicate him, and they could not do so without 
confessing that the charge against them was true. No 
evidence that Jane Wesley could give could be used 
against Tom, as he was her husband. 

But against them ! 

Then it was a different matter. “By heaven!” ex- 
claimed the doctor, as he thought the situation out, “our 
lives are in Jane Wesley’s hands. If Clara dies now, 
Tom’s wife can hang us 1 ” 


A month went by, and Dr. Markham was unable to dis- 
cover his missing wife’s whereabouts. He had not dared 
to continue his search for her after the day which followed 
her departure. On that day he received a letter. It was 
from his wife. It bore no address, and was very short 
and to the purpose. 

“I know the truth, and have gone away to save you 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


129 


from the fate you were bringing upon yourself. Do not 
attempt to find me, or to follow me. So long as you leave 
me unmolested your secret will be kept, but not a mo- 
ment longer. If you take any steps to find me or attempt 
to communicate with me, I shall know what to do. 

Clara. ” 

The doctor breathed again. So far as his wife was con- 
cerned he was safe while she lived. But if she died — 
then there was Jane Wesley. 

Tom, who had been communicated with at once, had 
no news of his wife. She had not even written to him. 
He appeared as terrified as any of them when he heard 
what had happened, and begged and prayed of the doctor 
in almost hysterical dismay not to seek in any way to 
trace the fugitives. 

For a month the two accomplices lived a life of utter 
misery. They were a prey to constant fears of disaster. 
The uncertainty as to Clara’s fate filled them with hourly 
apprehension. They feared to pick up a newspaper lest 
they should see her death in it. A line on the contents 
bills, “ Mysterious death of a lady,” which the doctor saw 
one day as he was in a street, had such an effect upon him 
that it was a week before he recovered himself. 

The doctor and Miss Wesley avoided each other as 
much as possible. The position became so painful that 
]\Iiss Wesley at last left the house and went to Brighton, 
where she lived in apartments. The guilty secret which 
bound them together kept them apart. 

The doctor found himself in a most peculiar position 
with regard to his wife’s affairs. She had complete con- 
trol of her own money. She drew her own checks, and 
all the dividends were paid direct to her account at the 
bank. He wanted to ascertain if his wife was drawing 
checks, if she had withdrawn any large sum ; but he 
hesitated to go to the bank in a straightforward manner and 
make an inquiry. Like all guilty people, he fancied that 
the slightest circumstance would arouse suspicion against 
him. But if he made no inquiry — if afterwards it were 
to be discovered that his wife Lad disappeared and that 
he had made no effort to find her, if it was proved that he 
had not even gone to the bank to find if she was still draw- 
ing checks, would not that also be a suspicious circum- 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


130 

stance ? A thousand ideas pursued each other across his 
bewildered brain. In the absolute uncertainty as to his 
wife’s fate, he knew not how to act for the best. 

All his doubts and fears were set at rest at last. About 
two months after the flight of his wife the doctor was 
aroused in the night by the violent ringing of the night 
bell. He put his head out of the window to inquire who 
wanted him, and a man's voice answered him, ‘‘ Come 
down and let me in ; I must see you at once.” 

The late visitor was Tom Wesley. 

Conscious that something unusual had happened, the 
doctor hurried on some clothes and went down and let 
Wesley in. 

He was A''ery excited, and imparted his wonderful news 
at once. Jane had come back as mysteriously as she 
had departed — she had come back with the intelligence 
that the doctor’s wife was dead and buried. She and 
Jane had gone to Dover, where they had stayed until 
Mrs. Markham’s health improved. From Dover they had 
crossed the Channel and made their way to the South of 
France, and thence they had gone to Naples. In Naples 
Mrs. Markham had been attacked with fever, and had 
died in a few days. An English doctor had attended 
her, and had certified the cause of death, and in four and 
twenty hours, according to the custom of the country, 
the poor lady had been laid to her rest. 

The doctor could hardly realize the facts at first, but as 
the truth dawned upon him he heaved a sigh of internal 
relief. 

His wife’s death could never be laid at his door now. 
The long spell of anxiety was at an end. 

On the following day he received from Tom Wesley 
the certificate, and wrote at once to the English doctor 
for particulars of his wife’s last illness. He was anxious 
that everything should be done in proper form. He might 
have ascertained all he wanted to know from Jane 
Wesley, but the subject was not one upon which he cared 
to converse with his brother-in-law’s wife. 

In a week the doctor’s answer was received. He had 
been called in to the lady too late to save her. 

She had died of a fever which was very prevalent in 
Naples and very rapid in its development. Armed with 
the certificate and the 'etter, the doctor went at once to 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


131 

the bank and gave due notice of his wife’s death and 
asked a few particulars as to the state of her account. He 
ascertained that from the time his wife left London she 
had drawn out the sum of two thousand pounds, and he 
wondered what she could have wanted with so much 
money, and what she had done with it. Possibly Tom s 
wife knew, but he was not anxious to cross-examine her 
on the subject. 

The only course to take was the legal one with regard 
to his wife’s property and the will by which it became 
his and her sister’s. He went down to Brighton and saw 
Miss Wesley, and advised her to remain there for the 
present, which she readily agreed to do. 

Tom Wesley was not in any great way benefited by 
the death of his sister, but his request for a loan of £500, 
as things were hard with him, was readily granted by 
the doctor. 


Twelve months after the death of Mrs. Markham, the 
doctor announced to Tom that he was about to be mar- 
ried — it was to be a quiet wedding, and for the present no 
one would know anything about it. The doctor had sold 
his town practice, intending to live in the country. The 
property of his first wife rendered him independent of his 
profession. 

A few days before the wedding, Tom called on his 
brother-in-law, and in the course of a pleasant little con- 
versation informed him that he had just developed a mag- 
nificent scheme and required £10,000 to carry it out. 

The doctor smiled. 

“My poor Tom,” he said, “I am beginning to find 
your magnificent schemes out. I don’t want any more 
of them.” 

“You refuse.” 

“Absolutely. ” 

“Come, Markham, I did you a good turn once. But 
for me, instead of having Clara’s money now, you might 
be lying in the place where they bury murderers.” 

The doctor’s face went crimson with rage. “Don’t try 
chat game on, Tom Wesley, ” he said. “I have had noth- 
ing to do with Clara’s death, and you know it” 

Tom shrugged his shoulders, 


132 


TALES OF T0-DA1\ 


“ Till very sorry I ever went out of my way to help 
your blackguardly scheme/’ he said. “You’ve got my 
sister’s money — you forced her to make a will and then 
you tried to get her out of the way, because you wanted 
to marry Kate and live on poor Clara’s fortune. It would 
go hard with you even now if I told my story. I tliink 
you had better shut my mouth if you want a pleasant 
honeymoon. ” 

“ You’ll keep your mouth shut for your own sake,” 
replied the doctor, angrily. “ Tm not going to be black- 
mailed any more, and so good morning.” 

“All right, my tine fellow,” muttered Tom to himself, 
tis he left the house. “I think you will wish you had 
been a little more civil to me before we meet again.” 


On the day arranged for the marriage, the doctor went 
quietly to the registrar’s office, were he and Kate were 
to be married. He was to meet her at the door. To his 
surprise he saw Tom walking up and down in front of the 
office, and it gave him rather a turn. He imagined he 
might be going to renew his threats. 

But Tom was very pleasant. He nodded and stepped 
forward. “Come along, Markham,” he said; “you’re 
late. My sister s inside already and waiting for you.” 

The tloctor followed Tom without a word. Tom pushed 
open the door of the registrar’s room, and the doctor 
entered. A lady was seated there already. 

The doctor looked at her, then gave a wild cry of 
horror. 

Tom’s sister zvas waiting for him, but that sister was 
not Kate, but Clara, 

Dr. iSIarkham on his marriage morning stood face to 
face with his dead wife. 


Two minutes after he got out into the street, into which 
he had rushed almost mad with terror at the apparition of 
the woman he believed to have been in the grave for 
twelve months. Dr. Markham recovered his composure, 
and the truth gradually dawned upon him. He saw now 
that he had been tricked by Tom Wesley and his wife — 
that the story of Clara’s death was an invention, and that 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


133 

the certificate had been obtained in some way, by trick- 
ery. 

But the object of the plot did not come to him at once. 

It had simply given him his wife’s fortune, for the will 
had been proved, the death and burial certificate and the 
evidence of Tom Wesley accepted, and the doctor had 
been allowed to enter into possession of the dead woman’s 
property 

This had all been done, but why ? 

The explanation came from Tom Wesley, who lost no 
time in giving it He waited on the doctor and demanded 
at once a legal surrender of the property. 

The doctor took the bull by the horns. He declined. 
He declared that his wife was dead, that the death had 
been proved, and that he had inherited under her will. 
She had legally ceased to exist, and he contended that she 
was dead. 

Then Tom Wesley was frank for the first time. He 
told the doctor that it was only after his wife went to 
nurse Clara he learnt from her what was really going on. 

The doctor had told him that he wanted to keep 
strangers away, as he feared his wife might make another 
will secretly, and he wanted her watched in his interest 
that nothing of the sort might be done. But as soon as 
Tom found his sister was not dying of disease, but being 
murdered, he joined with his wife in the plot to prevent it. 

1 1 was Clara’s idea to pretend she was dead. She had formed 
a belief that nothing but her death would satisfy her hus- 
band, and that in some way he would accomplish his 
end. It was a fixed idea — a mania with her. 

While at Naples, the fever broke out and a panic en- 
sued. An English lady, a friendless governess died in 
the hotel. She was nursed by Jane Wesley, who took 
compassion on her. By a mistake of the hotel heeper, 
Mrs. Markham’s name had been put to the governess’ 
room, and vice versa, and the doctor was informed that it 
was a Mrs. Markham he had attended. 

Clara Markham saw her opportunity at once, and in- 
sisted upon Jane Wesley helping her to carry out the 
idea. 

Jane gave the doctor the Christian name and all partic- 
ulars of the dead woman, in accordance with this scheme, 
and so it came about that the certificate bore the name of 


TALES OF TO-EAT. 


134 

Clara Markham when the friendless English governess 
was buried. 

Then Jane and Mrs. Markham came back to England to 
watch the progress of events. Mrs. Markham took a cot- 
tage in the country, and lived on the £2,000 she had drawn 
from the bank. She said that she would be able to recover 
her property when the time came to do so. 

But when Tom heard that his brother-in-law was about 
to marry Kate, he thought it was time to interfere. The 
news came upon him like a thunderbolt, and he at once 
told his sister it was time for her to re-appear. 

“ Now,” said Tom, when he had concluded his narra- 
tive, “your wife is alive, and she has no desire to trouble 
you with her presence, but she does not think that you 
deserve the fortune she left you, so you’ll please to convey 
it to me by deed of gift. I shall have no difficulty in 
proving her to be alive, you know.” 

The doctor hesitated until Tom declared that if he didn’t 
consent he and Clara and Jane would go to the police and 
tell the whole story of the attempted poisoning, and prove 
in a court of law that the will had been obtained by undue 
influence. 

Then he gave way and parted with the fortune he had 
risked so much to gain. 


Mrs. Markham, under an assumed name, lives at the 
present time in a a pretty little cottage in a quiet Devon- 
shire watering place. Tom, having received the £10,000, 
for once in his life brought off a genuine coup with the 
borrowed capital, and pays his eldest sister the interest 
on her fortune with the utmost regularity. Dr. Markham 
went abroad and set up in practice in a foreign town fre- 
quented by the English, but his evil reputation has fol- 
lowed him and he only just manages to exist. 

Kate Wesley died soon after her sister’s return to life 
by an overdose of chloral. She had to fly to that terrible 
drug for relief from the remorse and terror to. which she 
fell a prey. 

Truth is stranger than fiction. The name of Clara 
Markham may be seen to-day by the tourist in the Naples 
cemetery, and Clara Markham is still alive, though in the 
eyes of the law she has long since been dead. 


TALES OF TO-T>AY. 


135 

She died to save her life, and, being dead, recovered 
her fortune from the man who tried to kill her in order to 
get it. 

Her story is known only to her relatives and to one 
other person — the famous London lawyer who prepared 
the deed of gift, and who was placed in possession of all 
the facts by Mrs. Markham and her brother. If the boxes 

and pigeon holes of that famous firm of and Son 

could speak, the histories they could tell would startle the 
world far more than the pen of the most imaginative fic- 
tionist could ever hope to do. 


VII. 


A MISSING HUSBAND. 

By Jove, Jack, old fellow, youVe been a lucky dog,” 
said Tom Yarborough, as the last of his friend’s guests 
departed and he was left alone with him in the smoke- 
room of his charming “Queen Anne” house at Hamp- 
stead. 

Jack Smedley gave a little sigh. “Yes, Tom,” he 
said, “ I suppose I ought to consider myself lucky.” 

“ You suppose ! Why there can’t be much supposition 
about it. Five years ago. Jack, things were rather dif- 
ferent with you.” 

“They were, but I think I was happier then. Money’s 
a jolly nice thing, Tom, but like all other luxuries it costs 
a good deal to acquire.” 

“Well, you have acquired it, so you ought to be con- 
tented. If you are not, I don’t know who should be. 
Look at you. Barely thirty, strong, handsome, a uni- 
versal favorite with the men as well as with the women, 
you’ve a lovely little house in town, a charming place at 
Brighton, your phaeton and Mrs. Smedley’s Victoria are 
the smartest turn-outs in the Park, you’ve the best of 
health and the best of luck, you’re going to be taken into 
partnership by the biggest firm in the City, your wife’s 
the prettiest and the jolliest little woman in the world, 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


136 

and By Jove, old man, it almost takes my breath 

away to think what a lucky chap you are ! ” 

Jack Smedley let his friend run on, without replying to 
him. He sat back in the big easy chair and smoked his 
cigar with a look in his eyes that told of thoughts far 
away, and there crept over his face a shadow that few 
who knew Jack Smedley ’s face would have expected to 
see there. 

His friend noticed it, and it puzzled him. 

“ What’s the matter, Jack ? ” he said ; ‘^aren’t you well 
to night } ” 

‘‘Oh yes. I’m all right. I’ve been a bit worried lately. 
You see this partnership is a big affair, but to tell you the 
truth it will rather tie my hands. I can’t refuse it, because 
it’s a certainty.” 

“ Refuse it? I should think not. You ought to be put in 
a lunatic asylum for thinking of such a thing.” 

Either Jack Smedley didn’t like the conversation, or he 
was tired of talking, for he rose and gave Tom a delicate 
hint that he would be glad to bid him good-night 

“ You’ll excuse me now, old boy, won’t you ? ” he said. 
“I’m a bit tired, and I’ve a lot of letters to write before I 
go to bed. To-morrow will be a busy day for me in the 
city, as I have to meet the accountant and the lawyers 
with regard to the deed of partnership.” 

“ I understand. Goodnight, old chap. Shall I say 
good-night to Rose ? ” 

‘ ‘ She’s gone to bed, I think. I’ll say good-night to her 
for you.” 

“Well!” said Tom Yarborough to himself, as he 
walked across the Heath in the moonlight, “that’s the 
way of the world. If, five years ago, anybody had told 
Jack Smedley that he’d one day be taken into partnership 
with Morton Brothers, the richest firm on the Stock Ex- 
change, he would have jumped up to the ceiling with 
delight, and now that it’s going to happen I’m hanged if 
he doesn’t look more like sinking through the floor with 
annoyance. What would I give to be in his shoes ! ” 

Jack Smedley — handsome Jack Smedley, as he was 
called by his friends — had lost his father when he was a 
lad. The Smedleys were what is popularly called “ a 
good old county family.” Jack’s father had, however, 


TALES OF TO-EAY. 


137 


brought the family to grief. He had squandered a goodly 
inheritance in leviathan gambling transactions. Horses 
and cards had been his weakness from youth, and at last 
they had brought him where they had brought many a 
richer and many a better man before him — to ruin. The 
old home was broken up, the old Hall sold, the estate 
realized to satisfy clamorous creditors, and then the bank- 
ruptcy court having given a final touch to the picture of 
“utter smash,” Mr. Smedley with his wife and only son 
came up to London, and were lost to view in a little 
house in a mean and melancholy side street in Netting 
Hill. Then, after a year or two of useless regrets for the 
stormy past, the elder Smedley shuffled off the mortal coil, 
leaving his widow the local tradespeople’s bills to settle, 
two quarter’s rent to pay, and a growing lad of fifteen to 
clothe, feed, and provide for in life. 

Jack came home from school to his father’s funeral, and 
he never went back again. He and his mother had to 
make a fight for life. The mother’s friends did a little for 
her, and she managed to get a little house of furniture to- 
gether and to let lodgings to city clerks, and so to make 
both ends bread and cheese. Jack, thanks to the same 
people — people who had known the Smedleys in their 
“better days” — was lucky enough to obtain a situation 
in the office of a stockbroker. He was really only a su- 
perior errand boy at first, but he was paid ten shillings a 
week, and that was a wonderful help to the widow in her 
struggles with the landlord and the rate collector, not to 
mention the baker and the butcher. 

Jack was a handsome boy and an amiable boy. He had 
been a favorite at school, and he was soon a favorite with 
his employers. He was quick, bright, and industrious, and 
always a gentleman. After he had been in the office two 
years he was a clerk and had £75 a year, and when he 
was twenty-one he was a superior clerk and had £150. 

It was just when he came of age that his mother died, 
and then Jack, having wound up her little estate, went 
into lodgings, and started, in the elegant phrase of the 
period, “entirely cn his own hook.” 

Fortunately for young Smedley, before his independ- 
ence, his loneliness, his handsome face, and his charming 
manners had led him into the dangerous by-paths of 
London life, he fell over head and ears in love with a 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


13S 

pretty young- lady who lodged with her mamma in the 
same house. Rose Leacroft was a lady. Her papa had 
been a Lieutenant in the Navy. He had died of malarial 
fever in some dreadful foreign seaport, and left his wife and 
little daughter about £i 50 a year. Mrs. Leacroft liked the 
handsome young stockbroker they called Jack very much 
indeed. He was a gentleman and his family were 
“ known,” and Mrs. Leacroft thought a great deal of fam- 
ily. People who come down in the world generally do. 
It is a great consolation to them in their poverty to know 
that no shabbiness, no short commons, no indignity on 
the part of landlords or tradespeople, can rob them of 
their birthright. They may be poor, but they are “well 
born.” Their clothes maybe the worse for wear, they 
may ride in omnibuses, and they may not always have 
butcher’s meat for dinner, but still they are ladies and 
gentlemen by birth. 

When Mrs. Leacroft found that Jack Smedley was a 
“real” gentleman, she smiled upon him, and was gra- 
cious, and she discovered that her “ people ” had in some 
years gone by known some of his “people,” and she was 
able to tell him whom his great aunts married, and what 
relation he was by marriage to several people who occa- 
sionally figured in the list of presentations to Her Majesty 
and among the guests at the balls and receptions of the 
season. 

And when Jack and Rose discovered that they were in 
love with each other, Mrs. Leacroft was glad. Mr. 
Smedley was a rising young man. Pie was sure to attain 
a good position in the city, and though a business man, 
he was “ the scion of a county family.” 

It was not a very long courtship. Six months after they 
were engaged Jack and Rose were married, and they took 
a tiny little house in the Camden-road, and had one little 
maid-of-all-work, and were very economical, for they had 
determined to save all they could, and never, never to get 
into debt or to launch out beyond their means. 

It was a happy little home, and it grew happier as 
Jack’s position improved, and they had a big grown-up 
servant, and the little drawing-room began to fill with 
elegant nick-nacks, and Rose had prettier and more ex- 
pensive dresses, and they could give modest little dinner 


TALES OF TO-DA Y. 


139 

parties, and take their holiday comfortably at the seaside, 
not in lodgings, but at the best hotel, 

Then they moved to a bigger house, and had stalls at 
the theatres and at the opera, and a hired brougham took 
them there and brought them home, and they soon 
began to taste the pleasures of being “well-to-do.” 

Everything prospered with Jack after his marriage. 
The firm had been pleased with him before. They were 
delighted with him now. He was married, and that re- 
moved the last drawback to their complete confidence in 
him. A handsome young fellow of one-and-twenty is not 
so desirable as a confidential clerk as a young married 
man of the same age. 

So perfect was the firm’s faith in Jack that, when the 
head clerk started in business for himself, Jack took his 
place, and from that moment was absolute. He saw the 
principal clients, managed the biggest jobs, signed 
checks in the firm’s name, and took over the entire com- 
mand of the ship ; and the partners, who were growing 
old and had made their “ pile,” gradually left the busi- 
ness more and more to him, until at last they did as he 
told them, instead of telling him what he was to do for 
them. And finally, things going on so well, they took 
longer holidays than usual, and didn’t mind about being 
away both together. “Mr. Smedley ” was now practi- 
cally the firm, and clients asked for no one else. If one 
of the partners was in and saw a client, the client just 
said “ How d’ye do ?” and then said he would wait and 
see Mr. Smedley. 

When things were in this delightful position Mr. Smed- 
ley was very different from the Jack Smedley of old days. 
He was as handsome and amiable as ever, but not so 
economical. He had a beautiful house in town and his 
wife had her horses and diamonds, and they gave grand 
parties and had launched out in a life which was a costly 
and extravagant one. 

Everybody knew that Jack didn’t do it on his salary. 
You don’t live up to £5,000 a year on £1,000. But there 
was no mystery about it. Jack, with his intimate knowl- 
edge of the markets, had made coup 3.iiQvcoup on his own 
account, so it was said. Why, it was common gossip 
that during one panic he had make over £30,000 in 


140 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


American rails, and out of the electric light boom while 
it had lasted he had cleared another £20,000. 

One day — it was a week before the dinner party re- 
ferred to at the opening of this narrative — the partners 
came up to town smiling and bland, and when they ar- 
rived at the office they invited Mr. Smedley to favor them 
with a few moments’ conversation in their private room. 

They told him that in consideration of his talents, and 
his long and faithful service, they had determined to take 
him into partnership. 

Of course Jack thanked them effusively — dream of his 
life — never repay their kindness, etc. 

Then they went into details, and explained that as there 
was to be a partnership everything must of course be 
done in a proper way, and so an accountant would come 
and go through the books, and put everything straight, 
so that they might make a perfectly fair and business-like 
start as between themselves and their new and junior 
partner. 

“ Quite right,” said Jack ; and it was arranged that the 
accountant should come in on the following Monday to 
get the accounts straight, and then the deeds should be 
drawn up and the partnership should be settled. 

The night of the dinner party was the night before the 
accountant was to commence his labors. On the follow- 
ing morning Mr. Smedley packed a portmanteau and 
kissed his wife, telling her he had to go out of town to 
see a client of the firm’s, who was ill and wanted to sell 
out his shares in various undertakings and invest in 
Consols. 

He didn’t go to the office, and the partners were afraid 
he was ill, and sent up to his house. Mrs. Smedley, 
astonished, wrote a note to say he had gone out of town 
for the firm. 

Then the partners were astonished too, and couldn’t 
make it out, and didn’t until the accountant struck them 
speechless with horror and amazement by informing 
them that there was a sum of nearly £50,000 which was 
not properly accounted for, and which he wanted to know 
about before he could balance. 

This led to a closer investigation, and then there was 
no doubt as to the motive of the confidential clerk’s dis- 
appearance. He had embezzled during the last five years 


TALES OF TO-DAT, 


141 

about £50,000, and the offer of a partnership had necessi- 
tated a thorough balancing of the books, and that balanc- 
ing he had not thought it advisable to honor with his 
presence. 


Jack Smedley’s disappearance was a nine days" won- 
der on the Stock Exchange, and then it was forgotten. 
The partners whose confidence Jack had so shamefully 
abused felt bound on public grounds to take some steps 
in the matter, and they determined to prosecute him, and 
the police issued advertisements, and a reward was 
offered for his apprehension. But not the slightest trace 
was ever found of the fugitive. 

Poor Rose at first utterly refused to believe that her 
husband had gone off so unceremoniously. Day after 
day she expected that he would find some means of com- 
municating with her and letting her know where he 
was. She gave up everything to her husband’s creditors 
without a murmur, and went back to live with her 
mother, hoping against hope that she would hear some- 
thing of Jack, that he would let her know where he was, 
and give her the means of joining him. But the weeks 
grew into months, and still there came no sign, and pres- 
ently a year had gone by and she was still in utter 
ignorance of her husband’s whereabouts. 

She felt that he had treated her very cruelly ; the shame 
was bad enough, the terrible suspense was worse. She 
didn’t even know if he was alive or dead. At last she 
made up her mind that he must be dead. He might have 
committed suicide, drowned himself, perhaps, and this was 
the reason that since the day of his flight the silence had 
remained unbroken. 

She wondered often what could have induced him to 
turn dishonest. She had never asked for luxury, though 
she had accepted it when it came. And Jack himself had 
always appeared quite contented and happy in the days 
when they practised economy. 

Year succeeded year and still no news came, and then 
Rose abandoned her last hope, and made up her mind 
that on this side of the grave she should see her husband 
no more. Then she determined to accept an offer which 
she had from an old friend of her family, a wealthy 
widow named Moncrieff, and accept the position of com- 


142 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


panion to her. Rose’s mother had died the year4 pre- 
viously, and she had no one to consider but herself. 

Mrs. Moncrieff was about to take a long continental 
tour, and the change of scene and the excitement would 
be the very best thing possible for Mrs. Smedley, whose 
health had suffered under the long harass and suspense 
she had endured. 

On the evening that was to be her last in the lodgings 
she had occupied since her mother’s death, she was busy 
packing her boxes, when the landlady came up to say 
that a gentleman wished to see her. 

It was so unusual for anyone to call upon Mrs. Smed- 
ley, that for a moment a wild idea flashed across her 
mind that it was Jack. But the hope was slain the 
moment it was born, for the landlady added. “He 
says that his name’s Yarborough, ma’am.” 

“Tom Yarborough,” said Rose to herself, “whatever 
can he want? I suppose he’s heard that I’m going 
abroad and has come to say good-bye. ” 

She came downstairs to the parlor to see her visitor, 
and found Tom in a state of great excitement. 

“I — I hope you won’t mind my calling on you so 
late ! ” he explained, “but I’ve only just found out where 
you lived. I’ve some news for you.” 

“I know what it is,” gasped Rose, “ you — you’ve seen 
Jack.” 

“Yes, I believe I have.” 

The next minute Tom had dashed out into the hall and 
was yelling for the landlady. Rose Smedley had fallen 
down in a dead faint. 

When the landlady and Tom between them had 
brought her round and Rose was calmer, Tom told his 
story. 

He had been dining with some friends on the previous 
evening at a little town some thirty miles from London, 
and after dinner they had made up a party to go to the 
local theatre. 

The piece was not up to much and the company was 
only a small travelling one, but the voice of the man who 
played one of the parts instantly arrested Tom’s attention. 
He listened and listened, and the more he listened the 
more the idea haunted him. that he was listening to Jack 
Smedley. 


TALES OF rO-BAY, 


143 

He borrowed a pair of opera-glasses and scrutinized 
the actor carefully, but the “make up ” effectually con- 
cealed the man’s real features. And yet there was a look 
about the eyes and upper part of the face that confirmed 
Tom’s impression that he was in the presence of his long 
lost friend. 

The actor’s name was given in the programme as “Mr. 
J. Wilson.” As soon as the performance was over Tom 
made an excuse to his friends and went round to the stage 
door. He saw the stage door-keeper and asked if he could 
speak to Mr. Wilson. 

“I’ll see, sir. What name ? ” 

“Say Mr. Yarborough.” 

The man took the message, and promptly returned to 
say that “Mr. Wilson was engaged with the manager, 
and could not see anybody then.” Tom was not to be 
put off so easily as that, so he said he would wait out- 
side. 

As he was turning from the door, a young lady came up 
from the stage, dressed for the street. 

“Oh, Mrs. Wilson,” said the door-keeper, “ there is the 
gentleman as wants to see your husband.” 

Tom turned and looked at the young lady. She was 
very pretty and about four and twenty. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Tom, hesitating and wonder- 
ing how he should get out what was on his mind without 
making a mess of it. “I only wanted to ask Mr. Wilson 
a question.” 

“Perhaps* I can answer it,” replied the young lady, 
looking at Tom with a searching glance. 

“I — er — I’m afraid not. Td sooner wait for him. I 
shan’t detain him a minute.” 

“ I’ll go and see if he can leave the manager for a mo- 
ment,” said the young lady, and she went down the stairs 
to the stage again. 

Tom waited and waited. The actors and actresses 
passed out, and presently the fireman came upstairs. 

‘ ‘ Seen Mr. Wilson .? ” said the stage door-keeper. “This 
gentleman’s waiting for him.” 

“Everybody’s gone,” replied the fireman. “There 
ain’t anybody in the house now.” 

“How long has Mr. Wilson been gone then.? ” 

“I don’t know the company by name, but there ain’t 


44 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


nobody left in the house, I can tell you that, was the reply. 

‘ ‘ Ah, ” said the stage door-keeper, ‘ ‘ then it’s no use you 
waiting. Mr. Wilson and his wife must have gone through 
the front.” 

Then Tom at once jumped to the conclusion that the 
young lady had told Wilson that he (Tom) was still wait- 
ing, and that they had both slipped out the front way to 
avoid meeting him. And this convinced him that his 
surmise was correct, and that the actor with Jack Smed- 
ley’s voice was Jack Smedley himself. 

Tom Yarborough blurted out his story, for he was full 
of it. It was not until he saw the effect of his narrative 
upon poor Rose that it occurred to him that he had done 
an unwise thing. 

‘‘I don’t believe it, Mr. Yarborough,” she exclaimed, 
her eyes filling with tears. “I won’t believe it. My 
husband was cruel to leave me as he did. He has been 
cruel to leave me in doubt and suspense all these years, 
but surely he would not venture back again and run the 
risk of detection — and — and — ” 

She could not bring herself to say what was in her 
mind, which was that wicked as Jack Smedley had been 
to her, he^would not be so wicked as to come back to 
England calling another woman wife. 

But her curiosity was excited. The idea that her hus- 
band was alive and near London revived all the old feel- 
ings of doubt and anxiety which she had after a lapse of 
years conquered. 

“Tom,” she said, presently, “I must seeThis matter 
out. I shall go down to this place. Will you come with 
me } ” 

“Certainly,” said Tom, feeling that he was “in for it,” 
“but — er — hadn’t I better go first and make sure. You 
see, I may have been mistaken after all. ” 

“No, I’ll go myself. I can’t rest now till I know the 
truth. ” 

Mrs. Moncreiff started for the Continent alone. Rose 
explaining that important business of a private nature 
would detain her in town for a few days. 

The next evening, accompanied by Tom Yarborough, 
Mrs. Smedley went to the theatre. It was a different play 
— the bill had been changed, and there was no Mr. Wil- 
son in the cast, 


TALES OF TChDAY, 


145 

Tom went round to the stage door and interviewed the 
stage doorkeeper again. Did he know if Mr. Wilson was 
in the town still, and could he give him his address. 
Tom was referred to the acting manager, who said that 
Wilson had not been to rehearsal that morning, and on 
sending to his lodgings it was found that he and his wife 
had taken their luggage and left the town. It was a very- 
extraordinary thing to do, as a week s salary was due to 
them, and the manager couldn't understand it. 

Tom Yarborough understood it and Rose understood 
it. Jack Smedley had ventured back again, believing 
that his crime was forgotten and that in the strolling actor 
no one would recognize him. Directly he had been told 
that a Mr. Yarborough wished to see him he knew that 
he was discovered, and he had fled, taking with him the 
woman who called herself his wife. 

But even now there was no proof that these surmises 
were correct, and Rose couldn't leave the matter where it 
was. 

“Mr. Yarborough," she said, “I am determined that I 
will find this actor who calls himself Wilson, and see for 
myself if he is my husband. I can't rest now until I 
know the truth, however terrible that truth may be." 

Tom Yarborough went back to London ; he had his 
business to attend to, but Rose went to the hotel and 
stayed in the little town. She determined to find out from 
the company and from the landlady of Mr. Wilson's lodg- 
ings what kind of man this Mr. Wilson was. 

She went next day to the lodgings. The landlady 
could tell her very little. Might she see the rooms ? Cer-* 
tainly. 

They were poorly furnished, dull, uncomfortable-look- 
ing rooms — small parlors divided by a folding door. 
They were what is known in the profession as “theatri- 
cal diggings," and they changed their occupants almost 
week by week. Some of the tenants were careful, but 
some were not, and the general appearance of the apart- 
ments bespoke rough usage and neglect. 

Rose looked about the rooms in vain for any sign or 
token by which she might know that the last occupant 
had been her husband. She didn’t know what she had 
expected to find, but she had a vague idea that she might 
light upon a clue in some shape or form. 


146 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


Finding nothing, Rose Smedley began to ask questions 
of the landlady. What sort of looking man was Mr. 
Wilson ? How old did he appear to be, etc., etc. The 
landlady couldn’t say much about her last lodger. She 
had so many coming and going that they were pretty 
near all alike to her, and she saw very little of them. But 
she did notice Mrs. Wilson ; she was a very pretty, 
rather delicate-looking lady ; she noticed her particularly 
because when she came to pay the bill, and to say they 
were going away, she seemed nervous and frightened, 
and her manner attracted her attention. 

Rose felt a sharp pang of jealousy as she listened to 
the landlady’s description of the young woman’s personal 
attractions. For the first time it occurred to her that even 
if she traced her husband he was utterly lost to her. This 
girl, who called herself his wife, had usurped her place, 
and all that was left to her now was to prove the fact of 
her husband’s treachery, sue for a divorce and be a free 
woman again. 

Gradually she began to see that that was what she 
ought to do. Why should she spend the rest of her life 
bearing the name of a man who had treated her so in- 
famously ; who had committed a criminal act, and left 
her without a word, only to come back again after many 
years with another woman as his companion ? 

Yes, she had another motive in finding John Wilson, 
the actor, now. Love was dead, and revenge had taken 
its place. 

But how was she to find the man .? She had no clue, 
not a single thread to guide her. The man had left no 
address at the lodgings ; no one there had the slightest 
idea as to where he was going when he left. 

Rose went back to the theatre and saw the manager. 
She explained that the Mr. Wilson who had so myste- 
riously disappeared was, she believed, a friend of her 
family’s, and she was very anxious to discover his where- 
abouts. The manager was polite, but he knew nothing 
of Wilson ; he had engaged him for the tour, which com- 
menced about a month previously. Wilson had answered 
an advertisement, and had applied for himself and wife. 

“Have you the letter.?” said Rose. She thought to 
herself that she would recognize the handwriting, and 
that would set her doubts at rest 


TALES OF TO-DA F. 


U7 

The manager couldn’t say ; probably it was destroyed, 
but he would look among his papers and see. He was 
absent for about ten minutes, and then he returned. 

“ I can’t find the letter,” he said; “but I’ve found a 
photograph he sent with it.” 

“ His photograph ! ” cried Rose. “ Let me see it, I 
shall know it at once.” 

“No, not his photograph — the photograph of his wife.” 

He placed in Rose’s hands the photograph of a young 
woman, and Rose looked at it with mingled feelings of 
curiosity and repugnance. 

The landlady was right. The girl was certainly pretty. 
There was a look of delicacy and refinement in her feat- 
ures, and the eyes were very large and beautiful. 

“ May I — may I keep this.? ” gasped Rose, as with a 
deep sigh she lifted her eyes from her rival’s face. 

“Certainly, if you wish it. And now I must ask you 
to excuse me. We are playing a new piece to-night, and 
I’m wanted on the stage.” 

Rose thanked the manager, and left the theatre with 
the photograph of Mrs. Wilson in her pocket. She had 
made up her mind what to do. “I shall know this 
woman-again,” she said to herself, “wherever I see her, 
and when I do see her I shall not be long before I find 
out where this man is who passes as her husband.” 

Five minutes after Mrs. Smcdley had Jeft the theatre, a 
gentleman arrived and sent in his card. There were two 
words in the corner. which procured him instant admis- 
sion. Those two words were “ Scotland Yard. ” • 

The gentleman explained his business in a/ew words. 
He wanted some information about a Mr. Wilson, an 
actor of the company. 

“Why, there’s just been a lady here on the same 
errand, ’’said the astonished manager. ‘ What’s Wilson 
been doing.?” 

“A lady!” exclaimed the Scotland Yard gentleman. 
“ What was she like ? ” 

The manager told him. 

“So,” thought the detective, “Mrs. Smedley’s heard of 
it, too. Well, between us I fancy we shall find him ; but 
she mustn’t know I’m going to help her, or it might up- 
set the applecart.” 

Tom Yarborough had done a very foolish thing. He 


148 


TALES OE TO-DAY. 


had gone back to the city and mentioned that he believed 
he had seen Jack Smedley acting at a theatre. 

He did it innocently. He had quite forgotten that the 
reward of £i,ooo for Smedley’s apprehension, which was 
issued at the time his frauds were discovered, had never 
been withdrawn, and that the warrant was still in the 
hands of the police. 

Some one who owed Smedley a grudge in the city — a 
former clerk of the firm he had robbed, heard the news 
and went straightaway to Scotland Yard with it, and a 
detective went down at once to the town were Yarbor- 
ough thought he had seen the culprit at the theatre. And 
so it came about that after a lapse of years, during which 
Jack Smedley’s crime and his mysterious flight had almost 
dropped out of remembrance, Tom Yarborough’s chance 
visit to a little provincial theatre suddenly set the hounds 
of justice once more on his track. 

Rose Smedley, convinced that the’ man who was acting 
with a provincial company under the name of Wilson was 
her missing husband, went back to London with the 
photograph of the woman who called herself Mrs. Wilson 
in her pocket. 

The photograph was the clue by which she Hoped to 
trace the man. ^he thought all the circumstances over, 
and made up her mind that her husband, alarmed at being 
recognized by Yarborough, would not risk a public ap- 
pearance again yet awhile, but the woman would prob- 
ably get another engagement. They were evidently 
poor, and would have to live on her salary. 

Mrs. Smedley’s first visit was to a big theatrical 
agency near the Strand — an agency through which man- 
agers all over the country engage their companies. She pre- 
tended that she was in search of a young friend, an actress, 
whose whereabouts she had lost sight of for some time. 
The agent might be able to give her some information. 
Rose showed him the photograph, but he didn’t recognize 
it. He explained that he had such an enormous number of 
clients it was quite impossible that he should remember 
them all. Many of them he did not even see, but obtained 
them engagements by correspondence. However, if she 
would leave the photograph with him he would make 
inquiries, and he might be able to let her know some- 
thing. She might call again in a day or two if she liked. 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


149 

Mrs. Smedley allowed a week to pass and then she 
called upon the agent again. The clerk took in her name 

and came back with the answer that Mr. was very 

busy, would she kindly excuse him not seeing her. He 
had no information to give her ? 

Rose was disappointed, although she had hardly hoped 
for anything better. 

‘ ‘ Thank you, ” she said, ‘ ‘ Tm sorry to have given Mr. — 
so much trouble. Will you kindly ask him to let me have 
the photograph I left with him.” 

The clerk went into the private room and presently 
returned with a photograph which he handed to Rose. 

Rese was just going when the agent came hastily out 
of his room. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “ but Tve given you the 
wrong photograph.” 

“ Oh, no,” replied Rose, ‘Uhis ts the one I left.” 

The agent looked at it. 

“ That’s curious,” he said, “for I’ve another on my 
desk now. I didn’t look closely at what I was giving 
my clerk and I fancied that I must have made a mistake. 
Wait a moment.” 

He went into his room and returned with a letter. 

“ I see how it’s happened.” he said. “The photograph 
1 have came this morning in a letter which my clerk 
opened and put with a number of others on my desk.” 

“ A letter from Mrs. Wilson ? ” 

“ No, it is from a Miss Elmore, but this is the photograph, 
because my clerk indorsed it with the name and address 
after taking it out of the envelope.” 

He showed Rose a photograph. It was a fellow one 
to the photograph she held in her hand. Both were pho- 
tographs of the same woman. 

“ I’ve advertised for a lady and a gentleman to go out 
with a company to the Cape,” said the agent, “ and this 
is in reply to it. Miss Elmore is evidently your missing 
friend. She is anxious to secure this engagement for 
herself and husband. She does not inclose his photo- 
graph, but says he will call upon me by appointment, if 
the vacancy is not already filled.” 

“ Oh,” exclaimed Rose, endeavoring to appear calm, 
“how fortunate; will you kindly give me Miss Elmore’s 
address ? ” 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


150 

The agent hesitated. There was a look in Mrs. Smed- 
ley’s face that made him do so. He was a man of the 
world, and he had known instances before in which one 
lady wanted another lady’s private address for the purpose 
of a friendly greeting. 

“ It’s hardly the thing,” he said, “ for me to do without 
Miss Elmore’s permission ; but as the engagement is still 
open and I think she will just suit the part, judging by 
her appearance and the press notices she incloses, I shall 
write to her to come and see me, and then I’ll give her 
your address if you will leave it. That will answer the 
same purpose, I presume } ” 

“Oh, certainly,” replied Rose, biting her lips with dis- 
appointment. I’ll — I’ll send a letter here for her which 
you can give her or forward to her.” 

“Certainly. Good morning.” 

The agent disappeared into his private room again, and 
Rose went out into the street fully determined what she 
would do. 

She hadn’t the slightest intention of writing to Miss 
Elmore, or of leaving her address for her. That would 
have put the young lady on her guard and have spoilt 
the little plot which Rose was carefully thinking out for 
her rival’s discomfiture. As it was she was afraid that 
the agent merely telling the actress that a lady had been 
asking for her might arouse her suspicions. She didn’t 
think they would remember her name at the office. She 
had not written it down or left a card. Even if they did, 
the girl might not think it of any serious import. It was 
quite likely that she did not know what Wilson’s real 
name was or that he had a wife in London. He had 
probably told her that he did not want his friends to rec- 
ognize him for some family reason, and that had caused 
the girl’s agitation after the visit of Tom Yarborough, as 
described by the landlady. 

Looking on the brass plate outside the agent’s door. 
Rose saw that the business hours were from ii to 4, ex- 
cept on Saturdays, when they were 1 1 to 2. She calcu- 
lated that the agent would write to Miss Elmore that 
afternoon, and make an appointment for the next day or 
the day after. On one of these two days, between the 
hours of II and 4, Miss Elmore would enter that office 
and leave again and return to the place where she was 


TALES OF TO-LAT. 


151 

living. She might come alone, she might come with 
“Mr. Wilson.” 

Under any circumstances Rose would be there. The 
street was a wide and a busy one. She would easily be 
able to keep the agent’s front door in observation without 
being noticed herself. With her veil down and her 
parasol up “Mr. Wilson” could hardly recognize her, 
and Miss Elmore didn’t know her. 

The only difficulty was about following her, but it 
would be time enough to get over that when the time 
came. The girl was probably hard up and wouldn’t take 
a hansom, she would either walk or go by ’bus, and in 
either case Rose could be her travelling companion with- 
out exciting suspicion. 

If Jack came the case would be different. She should 
go up straight to him, confront him, and ask for the 
pleasure of a few moments’ conversation with him. All 
that evening and far into the night Rose thought over the 
scene that she might have to take part in on the morrow. 
She rehearsed it to herself and spoke her speeches aloud 
as she lay tossing from side to side, waiting for the dawn. 
She was too feverish and excited to sleep. She was not 
going to be violent, or make a scene. She had a few 
words of withering sarcasm ready for Miss Elmore, who 
would probably stare to see a strange lady accost Mr. 
Wilson rather unceremoniously and insist upon a private 
interview, but with Jack she was going to be calm, cold, 
and dignified. But she was going to let him understand 
that he would have to answer for his wicked, heartless 
conduct, and that Nemesis had overtaken him at last. 

And, crushing her recreant husband with words of 
dignified scorn, Rose fell asleep at last, and woke so late 
that by the time she had had her breakfast and reached 
the side street off the Strand in which the agent’s office 
was situated, it was on the stroke of eleven. 

As she got out of the ’bus she noticed a gentleman who 
got down from outside the same conveyance look at her 
rather curiously, and she wondered where she had seen 
him before. She thought it must be some one she had 
been introduced to, and so she bowed slightly, but the 
gentleman took no notice of her salutation but looked 
deliberately the other way. 

Rose knew then that she must have made a mistake. 


TALKS OF TO-DAY. 


152 

and she colored slightly at the idea of having bowed to a 
strange man who had stared at her. This little circum- 
stance set her thinking of the man as she walked up the 
street, and she gave quite a little start when a quarter of 
an hour later, as she was loitering near the office, she 
saw this same man come along on the opposite side and 
enter a public-house. 

She watched for him to come out, but he didn’t do so, 
and so she decided he must be the landlord, and then 
she fixed her attention on the agent’s doorway, and forgot 
all about the stranger to whom she had bowed in mistake. 

For two hours Rose watched the agency without any 
result. Plenty of ladies and gentlemen went up and 
came down the big stone staircase — actors and actresses 
most of them, she could tell by their style — but nobody 
in the slightest way resembling the photograph of Miss 
Elmore, and certainly no one in the slightest degree like 
Jack Smedley. 

Once she had a false alarm. A lady and gentleman 
came along from the top of the street ; the man was just 
Jack’s height and build, but when he came nearer she 
saw that he was a man with gray hair, and Jack’s- was as 
black as night. He w'as an actor, she thought, because 
of his shaven face, but when they got to the agent’s door 
he left the lady, who went in alone, while he went over 
the road to the public-house. 

He was in there about a quarter of an hour, and when 
he came out Rose thought he looked at her rather hard. 
But she was a pretty little woman still, and had a slim, 
graceful figure, and when ladies with slim, graceful 
figures go about closely veiled, there is nothing in 
gentlemen looking at them, as though they would like to 
see what sort of a face that tantalizing veil is hiding. 

It must have been nearly two o’clock, and Rose was 
thinking that she should have to find out some place 
where she could sit down, for she was getting terribly 
tired when a tall, thin girl, plainly, almost shabbily 
dressed, came up the street, looking up at the numbers 
as she walked along. 

This action it was which first attracted Rose’s attention, 
and then in a moment, instinctively, and before she was 
near enough for Rose to recognize her features, the 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


153 

deserted wife knew that she and her rival were about to 
meet. 

It was Miss Elmore. There was no doubt of that 
Rose soon forgot her caution in her excitement, and 
stood still and let the girl pass her so closely that their 
dresses touched. Miss Elmore evidently suspected 
nothing. She said “ I beg your pardon as she accident- 
ally touched Rose, but only gave her a passing glance. 

The hot blood rushed to Mrs. Smedley’s face, and a 
hard, cruel look came into her eyes. It was fortunate 
that her veil was down, and that it was thick. Other- 
wise she would undoubtedly have attracted attention. 

The face of her rival was a beautiful one — so beautiful 
it made Rose hate her all the more. But it was very pale, 
and there was a melancholy look in the large lustrous 
eyes which told even Rose, blinded as she was with jeal- 
ousy and passion, that her rival had suffered, and was 
suffering still, mentally as well as physically. 

The pale face, the sorrowful eyes, the shabby dress, the 
thin frame, all told a tale to one who can read a life story 
in the crowded street. 

Such a one would have looked after the tall beautiful 
girl and have said. “That girl is ill and unhappy.” 
Rose only thought of her as the woman who had usurped 
her place by her husband s side, and had been his com- 
panion in the misfortunes she had not been allowed to 
share. She was glad in her heart of hearts that her rival 
looked ill, more glad that she looked unhappy. She 
never stopped to ask herself whether this girl might not 
be in utter ignorance of the true story of Mr. Wilson’s 
“ life,” utterly innocent of the knowledge that she was 
injuring anyone but herself. 

Rose watched her enter the doorway and go up the 
stone steps that led to the agent’s office. Then she went 
a little way down the street and stood just where a build- 
ing, jutting out, hid her from the sight of any one coming 
out of the house which she was watching. She kept her 
eyes fixed upon the doorway so eagerly, so steadfastly, 
that the strain made her eyelids ache. She was terrified 
lest she should not detect Miss Elmore the first moment 
she emerged, and so let her mix with the crowd or get 
away ere she had time to follow her. 

Her attention was so fixed on this one particular point 


154 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


that she did not notice the gentleman to whom she had 
bowed in the morning come quietly to the public-house 
door, look up and down the street, catch sight of her, and 
then go in again quickly. 

The time passed slowly as Rose stood and watched. 
When a quarter of an hour had passed it seemed to her 
that Miss Elmore had been with the agent an hour. She 
had never taken her eyes from the doorway, and yet she 
found herself fearing that the girl might have come out 
into the street again and got away unobserved. But just 
as Rose had worked herself up into a fever of suspense, a 
lady emerged from the doorway and walked rapidly away 
in the direction of the Strand. 

It was Miss Elmore. 

An instant afterwards another lady, the lady who had 
parted with the gray-haired man at the door, came out 
too. Rose darted forward almost with a run, in her 
eagerness not to lose sight of Miss Elmore now, but quickly 
checking herself she crossed the road and walked rapidly 
till she was on a level with the girl, the roadway dividing 
them. 

Miss Elmore turned down into the Strand, and walked 
along until she came to Southampton Street, then she 
crossed the road and made for Waterloo Bridge. 

Rose followed, this time keeping on the same side of 
the road, but a little way behind. It was not an hour 
when the bridge was crowded, and it was quite easy to 
keep any one in view. 

“The girl is either going to walk home or to take 
the train at Waterloo,” thought Rose. “Whichever 
it is I have her safe now. I shall find out where she is 
lodging, and there I believe I shall find my husband.” 

Suddenly a shriek rang out just behind Rose. Every- 
body instantly turned to see what was the matter, Rose 
among them. A little boy had run across the road and 
^qllen just as an omnibus was coming rapidly on to him. 
It was a woman who had seen the occurrence who uttered 
the cry. The driver pulled up and the boy was saved. 
Then everybody went on their way again. 

But in the second that Rose turned her head she had 
seen something which had astonished her. Close behind 
her was the woman who had come out of the agent’s im- 
mediately after Miss Elmore, And on the opposite side 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


155 


of the road was the gentleman she had bowed to in mis- 
take, and who had gone into the public-house opposite 
the agent's office. 

Swift as lightning a suspicion of the truth flashed across 
Mrs. Smedley’s brain. 

She was being followed herself. She and Miss Elmore 
too. 

The woman was following Miss Elmore, the man was 
following her. He had evidently followed her from her 
house that morning, taken the same ’bus as herself, and 
watched her while she watched the agent’s office. 

She saw it in a moment, and she knew by a flash of in- 
spiration what it meant. 

Some one else besides herself had a suspicion that Jack 
Smedley had returned to London. And they had been 
watching her, his wife, believing that she would know 
of it, and communicate with him. 

The part of his story which she had for the time for- 
gotten came back to her at once. She was trying to find 
him to reproach him for his offences against her. But these 
people were trying to find him to make him answer for 
his offences against the law. 

The warrant which had been issued for John Smedley' s 
arrest was still in force. She and the girl were being fol- 
lowed by police agents, and, together, John Smedley ’s 
wife and his mistress were guiding them to their prey. 

Instantly Rose felt a revulsion of feeling. All the wife 
in her rose up against the idea of seeing the man she had 
once loved stand in the felon’s dock. 

She would have punished him herself, but she would 
protect him from others. 

In a moment she had made up her mind what to do. 
Quickening her pace, she caught Miss Elmore up. 

As she came level with her, without looking at her she 
said in an undertone, “ Don’t look at me. You are being 
followed. ’’ 

The girl gave a little start, and turned her head towards 
the person who had addressed her. 

“Hush!” whispered Rose; “take no notice of me. 
But don’t go home ; I tell you, you are followed.” 

Rose could see that Miss Elmore’s face was now more 
deadly pale than ever, and her lips trembled. 

“What shall I do .? ” she said. 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


156 

“Anything — but don’t go home.” 

At that moment an omnibus passed them. The con- 
ductor held up his hand. “ Room for two inside, ladies,” 
he shouted. 

“Yes. Get in,” said Rose. 

Miss Elmore, trembling, and almost speechless with 
agitation, obeyed. She was too bewildered to think for 
herself. 

Rose followed. The conductor slammed the door. 
The two women passed to two corner seats at the top of 
the omnibus. As it drove off, Rose leaned forward and 
looked out of the window. The man and woman were 
getting into a hansom cab together. They intended 
to follow the omnibus. 

Rose leant across and whispered to Miss Elmore. 

“When the bus stops at Waterloo Station,” she said, 
“ get out. I shall do the same. Have you any 
money } ” 

The girl blushed. “ I have a shilling,” she said. 
Rose took out her purse and put some silver into the 
girl’s hand. “As soon as you get out, take a hansom 
and tell the man to drive you to No. — Guildford Street, 
Bloomsbury. That is where I live. I shall be there as 
soon as you are. Then I will tell you more.” 

It had occurred to Rose that the best place for her to 
explain the situation to Miss Elmore would be her own 
house. There they could stay as long as they liked, 
and concert some plan by which the detectives, who 
were evidently following them, might be put off the 
scent. 

]\Iiss Elmore didn’t venture to ask for any explanation 
there. She knew that there was danger to some one 
whose name had not been mentioned by either of them. 
She knew that she was being followed by those who 
meant him harm if they could find him. This lady evi- 
dently knew it too, but how she knew it and what in- 
terest the matter was to her, the poor girl was too agi- 
tated to even try and think out. 

The ’bus stopped at Waterloo station, and nearly all 
the passengers alighted. Rose and Miss Elmore among 
them. 

“ Remember,” said Rose, before they left the omnibus, 
and she repeated the address, “You will come ? ” 


TAL^S op 1 0-1) at. 


^S1 


“Yes,” 

A minute afterwards Miss Elmore had hailed a hansom 
and given the man his directions. As the cab drove off 
Rose saw a hansom which had pulled up a little way off, 
turn round and follow it. 

The detectives were still on her track, or at least they 
thought they were. 

A quarter of an hour later Mrs. Smedley and Miss El- 
more were together in the little sitting room at Guildford 
Street. 

And outside the door a man stood with his hands in 
his pockets and whistled in sheer astonishment 

“ Well, Tm hanged,” he exclaimed to the woman who 
accompanied him, and who had just alighted with him 
from a hansom cab at the top of the street “Well, I’m 
hanged ! ” he exclaimed. “ This takes it This is Mrs. 
Smedley’s place, and the girl's in with her. John Smedley 
can’t have been there all the while without my knowing 
it” 

“It's not likely,” replied the woman. “If he was it’s 
hardly probable that the wife would ask this girl to come 
and see him there.” 

“You wouldn’t think so, but then who would think of 
them two being together at all, unless it was to pull each 
other’s hair out ? ” 

“ Well, they are there, and it’s pretty certain that John 
Smedley isn’t. What do you propose to do } ” 

“Tm hanged if I know,” exclaimed the detective. 
“ The thing looked straight enough this morning, but it 
looks deucedly crooked now. It’s my belief one of ’em’s 
fly, and having a game with us. But we’ll stop about a 
bit. The girl will come out again presently and then I’ll 
follow her. I’m going to see where she sleeps to-night, 
anyway. ” 

“ Do you want me any more.? ” 

“ You’d better wait a bit. I may want to leave you 
while I go after Mrs. Wilson. You’d better watch from 
the other end of the street and I’ll take this corner. It’s 
my opinion that one of ’em’s tumbled, and there’ll be 
nothing done while we’re in sight.” 

The man and the woman separated at once, and took 
each an end of that portion of Guildford Street in which 
Mrs. Smedley lodged. They were too far away to be 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


158 

noticed by any one coming out of the house, but nobody 
could leave it without being seen by them. 

When Rose Smedley saw how pale Miss Elmore 
looked, her first feeling was one of pity for her, and she 
hesitated to tell her who she was. 

For a moment the two women looked at each other in 
silence. 

Miss Elmore was the first to speak. 

“Madam,” she said, “ I don’t know who you are, but 
you evidently know something of me. You told me I 
was being followed. If that was so there was a danger 
in my going home. Do you know what that danger 
was ” 

“ I do,” said Rose, quietly ; “it was danger to the man 
who calls himself Wilson — the man you call your hus- 
band. ” 

“ He my husband, madam!” exclaimed iVIiss El- 
more, the blood rushing to her pale cheeks. “Miss 
Elmore is only my stage name.” 

“You mean that he has married you.?” cried Rose. 

“Certainly. I — I ” 

Rose sprang to her feet and ran to Miss Elmore’s assis- 
tance. 

The poor girl, who had been standing up as she spoke 
had suddenly tottered. Rose was only just in time to 
catch her in her arms and to prevent her falling to the 
ground. 

“ It is nothing, ” gasped the girl, as Rose helped her to 
the sofa. “lam not well, and this anxiety and sus- 
pense has — has — Oh, my heart ! ” 

The young actress put her hand to her heart with a 
cry of pain. Her face was livid, her lips were blue. In 
another second she fell back upon the sofa, senseless. 

Rose rang the bell for the servant and told her to fetch 
a doctor, at once, then she tried to force the poor girl’s 
lips open and give her some brandy. She was terribly 
alarmed at her appearance, and wondered what she 
should do if the illness was serious. 

When the doctor came he shook his head. “She must 
be put to bed at once,” he said. “ I will wait till she is 
a little better, and then send you in something for her to 
take. She is evidently subject to these attacks, but this 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


159 

one is severe. She has probably been over-excited, and 
she is evidently in a weak state." 

“ Put to bed at once ! " exclaimed Rose, “ she doesn't 
live here. She is almost a stranger to me. She will be 
well enough to go home to-night." 

“ Certainly not I To attempt such a thing would be to 
kill her." 

Rose hesitated no more. With the help of the servant, 
poor Miss Elmore was placed in Rose’s bed, and as soon, 
as she had recovered a little the doctor ordered her to be 
kept perfectly quiet, and leaving Rose certain instructions, 
he went away. 

It was seven o’clock in the evening when he left, and 
Rose, now thoroughly bewildered, wondered what on 
earth she should do. Here w'^s the woman she actually 
believed to be her husband’s mistress lying ill in her 
house, and she was nursing her. It would be cruel of 
her to tell the poor girl the truth now. For the present, 
at any rate, she must be kept in ignorance of that. The 
shock might kill her. 

But what of the man who was somewhere, evidently 
expecting the girl’s return ! Both women thought of 
him. Miss Elmore was the first to speak. 

“I’m better now," she gasped, as she tried to sit up in 
bed, and was gently restrained by Rose, “You must 
let me go home ; indeed, you must. Jack will be in a 
terrible state unless I come home." 

Jack ! 

There was no longer any doubt in Rose’s mind as to 
who Miss Elmore’s “husband” really was. 

“ You can’t go, my dear,” she said, quickly : “I shall 
not allow it. " 

“Then I must send a message to him." 

Rose had thought of that. But how was it to be done? 
She felt certain that the detectives were still on the watch, 
that any attempt to communicate with Wilson would be 
the means of giving them the clue they wanted to his 
whereabouts. And she was determined that he should 
not fall into their hands. 

Presently Rose had an idea. “ I will send a telegram,” 
she said, “if you will give me his address." 

Miss Elmore hesitated. But there was no alternative. 
She gave the address. It was a street running out of the 


TALV:S OP TO-DAT, 


160 

Lambeth-road, and presently Rose wrote out the follow- 
ing telegram : “ Have had one of my old attacks, but am 
better. Am with friends and safe, but cannot leave till 
morning. Don't worry. Kate." 

It cost Rose a pang to sign another woman s name to 
a message to her husband, but she had steeled herself to 
carry her resolve out, cost her what it might. 

As soon as the telegram was written she put on her 
things, and leaving the servant with the patient, went 
out. She wasn't going to the office herself. The nearest 
office was in a grocer's shop, and the young man, might 
be tricked by the police into giving the address upon the 
telegram. So she went to the doctor’s, told him a little 
romance about his patient, and he promised to send the 
telegram off himself wheirhe went out, which would be 
in half-an-hour. The detective was hardly likely to fol- 
low the doctor's brougham, or to suspect his errand. And 
if he did he would get no information from him. As a 
medical man, any information that came into his hands 
through a patient was sacred. 

This task accomplished. Rose went back and tried to 
comfort and soothe the invalid. 

At ten o'clock the female detective went away. The 
man remained till midnight. He knew that some one 
was ill in the house. He had seen the servant go for the 
doctor, and he had seen Mrs. Smedley go to the doctor 
afterwards. Miss Elmore had not come out. It was 
probably Miss Elmore. The case was getting more com- 
plicated than ever, but he made up his mind that the 
young lady wouldn’t oblige him by coming out while he 
was there, and so he went away. 

It was evident to him that for the present he was foiled. 
That John Smedley was in London he felt sure, that he 
was the actor who called himself Wilson he was con- 
vinced, and his view was strengthened by the fact that he 
had ascertained through his female assistant that Miss 
Elmore had given no address at the agent’s except a well- 
known post-office, where people of all sorts were in the 
habit of having their letters left. 

The next morning Miss Elmore was much better. Rose 
had watched her till she slept, and had then gone to lie 
down on the sofa in the sitting-room. 


TALES OF TO-DAT. 


lOi 

She was so much better that towards middle day, when 
the doctor came, he allowed her to get up. 

Then she and Rose talked the situation over, and little 
by little the young actress told her story. 

She had been playing with a company in America when 
she first met Wilson, who was then taking to the stage. 
He was not a good actor, but he was a gentleman, 
and made himself agreeable, and people liked him. 
They saw a good deal of each other, and they fell in love. 
He asked her to be his wife and she consented, and they 
were married. Soon afterwards she heard that her mother 
was seriously ill in England, and she wanted to return 
and see her. At first her husband objected, but at last, 
upon thinking it over, he consented, but she noticed that 
he seemed very nervous as soon as they landed upon Eng- 
lish soil. She returned to find her mother dead. All their 
funds had been exhausted by the journey, and she pro- 
posed that they should get engagements in England. At 
last she succeeded in obtaining one with a travelling com- 
pany for herself and her husband. One night, in a little 
town near London, a message was brought to her husband 
that a gentleman named Yarborough wanted to see him. 
He was terribly agitated, and exclaimed, “My God, they’ve 
recognized me. I thought after all these years I was 
forgotten. ” 

That night he told her his story. He confessed that 
some years before he had been in an office in London, 
and had been accused of embezzlement. He assured her 
that he was innocent, but could not prove it, and that if he 
were taken he would be sent to prison for years. She was 
terrified, and they left the place at once and came to Lon- 
don. Jack after that rarely went out. He seemed in 
constant terror of being recognized. They were very 
poor and she had had to pawn to pay their rent. Then they 
saw the advertisement for an actor and an actress to go 
to the Cape with a company. Her husband said that 
would be the best thing for them, and he had sent her to 
try and get the engagement. Rose knew the rest. 

“So,” thought Rose to herself, “he has deceived this 
poor girl, and she really believes that she is his wife ! 
What am I to say to her ? What will she do when she 
knows the truth ? ” 

A great pity welled up in the heart of Rose Smedley for 


62 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


this poor girl who had been so loyal to the man she 
loved. She ceased to regard her as a rival, and looked 
upon her only as a fellow victim. 

But now more than ever she felt bitter against her hus- 
band, and determined to let him see that his baseness was 
known to her. Then he might go to the Cape if he liked. 
She would not raise a finger to stop him. But no mercy 
she might show him would enable him to atone for the 
wrong he had done Kate Elmore. 

The doctor had still forbidden Kate to leave the house 
under any circumstances. Leaving her at home, Rose 
went out. She was determined in some way to see John 
Smedley that day. She looked about her to make sure 
that the house was not watched, and saw the detective at 
the top of the street. He had resumed his watch. But as 
she came out his back was turned for a moment. A few 
doors below was a corner of the street — round this Mrs. 
Smedley darted. Then she stopped well out of sight and 
waited. If the detective had seen her he would come 
after her at once. 

She waited a few minutes and he did not come. Then 
she was sure that he had not seen her leave the house but 
was still watching it. 

She was safe now. She went up the side street to the 
top and took a short cut and made her way into Holborn 
— there she took a cab and drove to the address given by 
Kate Elmore. 

It was a poor, mean, little house, with dirty blinds, 
and a general appearance of being let off in lodgings to 
people who were not too particular. 

She knocked at the door, and the landlady, an untidy 
person with an untidy baby in her arms and a small, un- 
tidy child clinging to her skirts, opened the door. 

“ I come from Mrs. Wilson, with a message for her 
husband. Is he at home .? ” 

“No, he ain't, ma'am. He's gone away." 

“Gone away! " exclaimed Rose, in astonishment. 

“Yes, he paid me my rent, and went away last night. 
He left a letter for Mrs. Wilson, which was to be given 
her when she came in." 

“ She is staying with me. I'll take the letter to her." 

“Certainly, ma'am, and welcome." 

The landlady went upstairs and fetched the letter, and 


TALES OF TO-^DAY. 163 

gave it to Rose. She looked at it, and a chill feeling 
crept over her heart. 

The last doubt was removed. It was her husband's 
writing. She had always believed that Wilson was her 
husband, but the certainty was a shock to her, none the 
less. 

She took the letter home. She was bound to give it to 
Kate. It might contain something that it was necessary 
she should know at once. 

Kate opened it, read it, and then let it fall with a cry 
of anguish. The next moment she buried her face in her 
hands, and burst into tears. “ Read it,” she sobbed. 

Rose picked it up and read it. 

It was a heartless letter. It told poor Kate, in a few 
words that the man she had toiled and slaved for, the 
man for whom she had almost starved, had let his 
cowardice get the better of him. He said that the 
nervous dread was killing him, and he couldn't stop in 
London. He thought they would do better apart, as he 
was only a drag on her, and he could keep out of the 
way better by himself. He was afraid that through her 
one day he would be run to earth. Then he would be 
taken from her, so perhaps it was just as well that he 
should go now. Some day, if he had luck, he hoped to 
return and claim her, etc., etc., and she was to forget 
her unworthy husband and be happy. 

The letter omitted to say that through a friend in the 
profession Jack had heard of a sudden vacancy in a com- 
pany going to India, and that as it was only a vacancy 
for one he had thought it better to accept it and be off 
and leave his wife to shift for herself. 

“ He is a coward,” cried Rose, “ a miserable selfish 
coward ! My dear, such a man isn't worth fretting for.” 

But Kate did fret. For a time she was almost heart- 
broken. She little knew what cause Rose Smedley had to 
view “ Mr. Wilson's ” conduct from the harshest possible 
standpoint. But she got over it in time, and found a true 
and loyal friend in Rose. To-day Kate Elmore is a favo- 
rite London actress, admired everywhere for her beauty, 
her grace, her cleverness, and her goodness. 

She and Rose share a pretty little villa between them, 
and they are as sisters. There is a common bond of sor- 
row between them, but only one of them knowvS it They 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


164 

have both been deceived and deserted by the same man. 

Rose has made up her mind that she will never let 
Kate know the truth, though now both of them are free to 
marry again. 

The death of an English actor named Wilson was an- 
nounced a short time since in the American papers. 

His death was the result of a pistol-shot which was 
administered to him in a drinking saloon by the brother 
of a woman whom he had deserted after getting posses- 
sion of her property. 


VIII. 

SERAPHIM SOAP. 

Simpson’s soap was famous all over the world. Its 
many excellent qualities, aided by lavish advertisement, 
had made it so. Simpson and Co. were popularly sup- 
posed to spend something like a hundred thousand a 
year in giving publicity to their specialty. High-born 
dames, professional beauties, and famous actresses, 
wrote charming letters to Mr. Simpson declaring that 
since they had used his soap their complexions had be- 
come the admiration of all beholders. The hoardings of 
the Metropolis were covered with pictures of beautiful 
young ladies in low-necked costumes washing their 
hands with Simpson’s Soap. Chubby babies, with no 
clothes on at all, were also represented crowing with 
frantic delight because nurse had put some of Simpson’s 
lovely soap in the infantile eye. If you picked up a 
newspaper, the first thing you saw was a column about 
Simpson’s Soap. If you bought a two-shilling novel 
Simpson’s Soap was on the back of it. If you picked up 
a magazine you found right in the middle of an interest- 
ing article a fly-leaf with an optical illusion upon it, a 
red spot at which you were requested to stare patiently 
for twenty minutes, at the end of which the red spot 
would begin to move slowly across the paper. If you 
went to an exhibition you found that some beautiful 
pieces of statuary had been purchased by the proprietors 
of Simpson’s Soap. If you went to the Academy you 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


165 

were astonished to find that one of the best pictures of one 
of the most popular R.A. ’s had been painted for the pro- 
prietors of Simpson’s Soap. 

The only place in which you were absolutely safe from 
Simpson’s Soap was in church, and even there, if rumor 
does not misstate the facts, the manager of Simpson s 
advertisement department once nearly succeeded in bring- 
ing off a daring idea for a reclame. A church was greatly 
in need of restoration. A'public appeal was made for 
funds, and Simpson nobly offered to find the entire 
amount necessary if he might put in a stained glass win- 
dow with a representation of a Scriptural incident in which 
an act of ablution was the leading feature. The vicar 
hesitated for a time, but fearing that somehow or other a 
cake of Simpson’s Soap would be introduced into the 
picture he reluctantly refused. The Postmaster General 
was introduced to Simpson at a political club, and for a 
whole half hour Sampson endeavored to persuade him to 
accept his offer to print all the telegraph forms gratis if 
he might put at the bottom “Printed by the Proprietors 
of Simpson’s Soap,” and it is currently reported that if 
Her Majesty would have done for Soap what she did for 
Pills and Ointment, Simpson would have built the Im- 
perial Institute at his own expense, and have handed the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer a check for the National 
Debt after the opening ceremony was over and Her 
Majesty, having accepted a model of the building execut- 
ed in Simpson’s Soap, had driven off amid the respectful 
salutations of the distinguished company and the cheers 
of the assembled thousands outside. 

There was absolutely no limit Jto Simpson’s ideas on 
the art of advertising. He had covered the whole earth 
with his beautiful posters, he had had inserted the testi- 
monials of the crowned heads of Europe in every known 
tongue, in every newspaper published, in every town in 
the world, he had interleaved the periodicals of Europe 
and America with the red spot at which you had to stare 
twenty minutes, the temptation being an offer of one 
million pounds sterling to any person not absolutely blind 
with both eyes who failed to see the illusion after com- 
plying with the regulations, and he had only abandoned 
the idea of introducing Simpson’s Soap into the moon by 
means of balloons, after being assured by a great astro- 


i66 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


nomical authority that there was no water there, and that 
consequently it was utterly impossible for the inhabitants 
to wash themselves. 

Tom Simpson, the chief partner in the firm, and the in- 
spiring and directing genius of this most marvellous sys- 
tem of advertisement, was ubiquitous. He was known, 
and, let me say at once, beloved in every part of the 
world. His handsome presence, his charming manners, 
and his great talents made him a universal favorite. Bis- 
marck never met him in Berlin without asking him to 
dinner, and the great Chancellor always acknowledged 
the annual birthday present of a box of Simpson’s Soap 
in an autograph letter. The famous Bishop of Pongotown 
the intrepid African traveller and missionary, was never 
tired of telling the members of the Royal Geographical 
Society how once when he was ordered out for immediate 
execution by King Quiz Boo, the terror of the Dark Con- 
tinent, his life was saved by the ii^ercession of Tom 
Simpson, who was travelling through the Equatorial pro- 
vinces in search of good stations for his latest soap poster 
— the poster which had been specially designed by the 
Presidents of all the Art Societies and Academies of Eu- 
rope in collaboration. In the Arctic regions the name of 
Tom Simpson was a household word, and it was a 
popular saying that if the North Pole had been a real pole 
on which an advertisement could have been stuck Tom 
Simpson would have found a way to discover it long 
ago. In America the President of the United States always 
came personally to meet Mr. Simpson on his arrival in 
New York, and one bedroom in the White House is gen- 
erally known as Mr. Simpson’s room. On the long and 
perilous journey to Khiva the late Colonel Burnaby found 
no passport equal to a letter of introduction from Mr. 
Simpson, of Simpson’s Soap ; and in the wildest part of 
Galway the peasants would disperse at a word from Tom 
Simpson, though the constabulary and the military might 
have been firing on them for twenty minutes without in- 
ducing them to go quietly to their homes. 

But, feted by the rich and idolized by the poor where- 
ever he went, Tom Simpson never neglected business for 
pleasure. He never for one moment forgot that the great 
object of his life was to advertise his soap. 

If his health was proposed at a Royal Banquet he 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


167 

would modestly remind the princely and noble company 
that he manufactured the best soap in the world. When 
the United Temperance Societies of England and America 
presented him with his portrait on the occasion of the 
opening of the new Temperance Congress Hall of all 
Nations presented by his firm, he made a beautiful 
speech in favor of water, but slyly hinted that soap was 
an excellent thing to use with it when applied externally. 
When the King of Burmah gave a grand slaughter of 
slaves at Mandalay in his honor, Tom Simpson begged 
to be allowed to introduce a novel form of torture for the 
monarch’s edification, and had a very aged and dirty 
priest taken off the bonfire and washed all over with a 
cake of Simpson’s Soap instead, which torture the old 
gentleman enjoyed so much that all the priests in Burmah 
who had to do penance tortured themselves in the same 
way ever after, and the export orders to Burmah became 
an important item in the annual returns of the firm. 

From this brief sketch the reader will have gathered 
some idea of the senior partner in the world-famous firm 
of Simpson and Co. The soap needs no introduction 
from me. It is a household word wherever any language 
that includes such a word in its vocabulary is known. 
There are tribes still in existence in remote corners of the 
earth who have a very limited vocabulary indeed. They 
have only words which signify to eat and to kill — food, 
drink, and blood. The chief of one of these tribes be- 
came accidentally possessed of a cake of Simpson’s Soap, 
ate it, and foamed at the mouth for a quarter of an hour 
afterwards, much to the surprise of his wives and war- 
riors, for he was a man of singularly calm and placid dis- 
position. But he was much lighter and more active 
afterwards, and the tribe always regret that they didn’t 
keep a little of the curious fruit, or root, or whatever it 
might be, in order to plant it and raise a supply from it. 

The brief sketch to which I have previously alluded 
was necessary in order to show the reader the determina- 
tion and the brilliant business talents of my hero. With- 
out such an introduction the great adventure of Tom 
Simpson’s life, the most remarkable incident of his mar- 
vellous career as a soap advertiser would not be properly 
understood. 

This incident happened just as he was thinking of set- 


i68 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


tling down in his beautiful mansion at Kensington, and 
handing the advertising over to a gentleman who had been 
the sole manager of the department for many years. 

Tom Simpson having come to fifty years of age, and 
being rich beyond the dreams of avarice — it was said that 
he could have covered every five pound note in Baron 
Rothschild’s possession with one for ten, and still have 
had a large reserve capital — had a right to think of devoting 
the remainder of his life to the calm enjoyment of his do- 
mestic hearth and the society of the leading members of 
the aristocracy, and the shining lights of the world of art 
and literature who were his most intimate friends. 

His only daughter — a beautiful girl of eighteen — was 
most anxious to keep her papa at home, and he felt that 
as she was just coming out she ought to have the advan- 
tage of his escort into society. 

Letty Simpson was a delightful girl. Inheriting her 
father’s handsome features, and being also sole heiress to 
his immense wealth, she was naturally much admired, 
and directly she was “out” she stepped at one bound into 
the proud position of the belle of the season. 

Tom Simpson was certain from the very outset that a 
coronet was within Letty’s grasp when she cared to reach 
out her pretty little hand for it. There was nothing in her 
being the daughter of a manufacturer. In these days it is 
an ordinary thing for peers to marry black lead, beer, 
sugar, cotton, mustard, starch, vinegar or patent medicine. 
Soap was as good as any of these and better than some. 
Young Lord Pasdesou had even gone so far as to marry 
ginger beer and lemonade, and his wife was received with 
open arms everywhere, although she was twenty years 
his senior and had a papa who said “Look ’ee ’ere,” and 
called her “ my gal,” and her husband “ my son-in-lor,” 
and never went to a dinner party without entertaining the 
company with the story of how he started in business in 
such a small way that he drove his own cart round and 
delivered the ginger beer to his customers himself. Know- 
ing these facts it was small wonder that Tom Simpson 
counted on seeing Letty a marchioness at the very least, 
for Letty was a lady as well as an heiress, and her papa 
was the friend of princes and the companion of dukes, 
and an honored guest at every court in Europe. 

To tell the truth, even in his love and admiration for 


. TALES OF TO-DAY. 


169 

his daughter and his desire that she should make a grand 
marriage, the chance of a big advertisement for Simpson’s 
Soap was not forgotten. He felt that it would be a mag- 
nificent opportunity for “paragraphing” the Press of the 
World. “The beautiful Miss Simpson who was last 
week united in marriage to his Grace the Duke of Knock- 
lands is the only daughter and heiress of Thomas Simp- 
son, Esq., the chief proprietor of Simpson’s Soap.” 

The American trade would certainly benefit by the 
marriage. The fair Americans would feel that in using 
Simpson’s Soap they were, in a manner, shaking hands 
with the British aristocracy. 

Letty had not been out very long before she had plenty 
of admirers, and to her father’s delight it was evident that 
a young Duke, who had been rather severely damaged 
on the Turf and had gone prematurely bald, was inclined 
to make himself agreeable. Letty was very charming 
and very gracious to her numerous admirers, but when 
her papa told her that if there was any young nobleman 
she fancied for a husband she was to be sure to let him 
(her papa) know and he would try and buy him for her, 
Letty laughed and blushed and said, “Oh, papa, dear, 
what nonsense ; as if any nobleman would marry me ! ” 

And when her papa pressed her she grew just a little 
angry, and stamped her little foot and exclaimed, “ Papa, 
don’t you ever try to make me an advertisement for your 
soap, because I won’t have it. I intend to marry for love 
or not at all.” 

Then it was papa’s turn to frown, and he told his 
daughter that “she was a silly romantic little thing, and 
that he would never consent to her marrying anybody 
without a title ; of course, if the young man had a title 
she might love him as much as she liked.” 

Letty said nothing, but she gave her papa a look which 
would have told him something had he known as much 
about the art of love as he did about the art of advertis- 
ing. 

One evening at a ball Mr. Simpson happened to be 
sitting in a conservatory behind some plants where no- 
body could see him, and in this position he overheard a 
conversation which filled him with dismay. Two elderly 
Duchesses came in, sat down, and began to converse. 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


170 

and the subject of their conversation was the attention 
paid by the Duke of Knocklands to Miss Simpson. 

“It’s no good, my dear,” said one Duchess, “ she’ll 
never have him. She’s in love with young Smithson, 
the rich advertising contractor s son. 

Mr. Simpson almost revealed his presence by a groan, 
but he kept his emotion down, and as soon as the 
Duchesses had gone he went in search of his daughter. 

He found her dancing with the Duke and looking ex- 
ceedingly satisfied with the attention she was receiving 
from the company. “ That will be a match, depend upon 
it,” said one lady ; and another lady, the mamma of four 
handsome but undowered daughters replied, “There’s no 
accounting for taste ; but when I was a girl a duke 
wouldn't have stooped to soap.” 

As father and daughter drove home in the small hours 
Mr. Simpson opened fire. “ Letty, my dear,” he said, 
“ people are talking about you and young Smithson ; you 
don’t care for that fellow, I hope.” 

“ What nonsense, papa ! The idea of your listening to 
what those wretched gossiping people say. Why, they’ve 
engaged me to a dozen gentlemen already.” 

Letty ’s manner was so unconcerned that her papa was 
relieved, but he thought it as well to say that he would 
never consent to such a match. Smithson was a very 
nice young fellow ; he had been to Eton and Oxford, and 
his father was immensely rich ; but he wasn’t the husband 
for the beautiful daughter of Simpson’s Soap. His father 
and Mr. Simpson were great friends and the families visited 
each other, but Mr. Simpson never contemplated an 
alliance by marriage with the King of the Hoardings. 

It was about a fortnight after this that Mr. Smithson, 
ph'e, called on Mr. Simpson, and after smoking a cigar in 
the library with him — a frequent occurrence — ^he sudden- 
ly threw a bombshell at his host’s head by coolly asking 
for Miss Simpson’s hand for his son. 

Mr. Simpson thanked Mr. Smithson coldly for the honor 
and begged to decline it with thanks. He had other 
views for Letty. 

“ But the young people have been in love for years.” 

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Simpson. 

Then Smithson argued the point and Simpson lost his 
temper, and the two gentlemen quarrelled and had such 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


171 

high words that Simpson vowed that when his contract 
ran out, which it did next week, he would never stick 
another poster on Smithson’s hoardings or give him an- 
other advertisement for the newspapers, and Smithson 
said that if he did he w'ouldn’t accept the order, and 
Simpson would see where his soap would be then. 

Letty heard of the quarrel and was very unhappy. She 
cried and declared she loved Arthur Smithson and would 
marry him, and her papa vowed if she did he would 
leave his immense fortune to the Hospitals and Public 
Charities of the Metropolis. 

Then Letty was sulky and refused to go out, but her 
papa was firm, and at last she plunged once more into 
the gayety of the season, and the Duke of Knocklands was 
more persistent in his very pointed attentions than ever, 
and one day made a direct offer of his hand and straw- 
berry leaves to Miss Simpson after obtaining her papa’s 
permission. 

Letty declined the honor, but Mr. Simpson assured the 
Duke that it was only feminine contrariness, and that he 
might hope for better luck in time. 

This was the position of affairs when one morning, 
while driving to town, Mr. Simpson was astonished to 
see the hoardings of London covered with magnificent 
posters of a new soap. “ Seraphim Soap ” it was called, 
and angels were represented in the act of washing their 
wings with it. 

“ It’s blasphemous,” roared Simpson, but he confessed 
that it was a startler. When he got to the office all his 
clerks were talking about it. When he went out his ac- 
quaintances button-holed him and asked him whose soap 
“Seraphim Soap ” was. 

The next day he found Seraphim Soap all over the 
newspapers, this time in the shape of a little poem to 
the following effect : — 

SERAPHIM SOAP. 

“ Why are the angels’ wings as white 
As the snow that lies on the Jungfrau’s slope? 
Because they are washed after every flight 
With a fragrant cake of Seraphim Soap.” 


172 


. TALUS OF TO-OAT. 


“ It's worse than blasphemous,” screamed Mr. Simp- 
son, as he threw paper after paper down in disgust, but 
he felt that whatever its character it was a tremendous 
advertisement. He jumped into a hansom and drove 
round to the retail houses. “What was the new soap.? 
Who was behind it ? ” he asked everywhere. 

Nobody knew. But the entire trade had received cir- 
culars stating that the Seraphim Soap would be advertised 
for three months before any was supplied. At the end of 
that time, an enormous demand having been created and 
an enormous stock manufactured, orders would be solic- 
ited, and the metropolis and the provinces would be 
supplied simultaneously in order that there should be no 
jealousy. 

“ Had any orders come in from customers.?” 

“Oh, yes, the new soap was on everybody's tongue. 
The public were asking for it everywhere. 

Mr. Simpson returned to his office in a terrible rage, 
and talked the matter over with his partner. 

Of course no soap could be as good as Simpson’s, and 
its old-established reputation placed it above competition, 
but this new soap was evidently going to be boomed ter- 
rifically, and something must be done to counteract the 
effect of the gigantic advertisement. Simpson must 
smother the hoardings of the world more than they had 
ever been smothered before. It doesn’t do to sit still in 
business while a rival makes headway. An R. A. was at 
once commissioned to design a new poster, and poems 
were ordered from the most eminent poets in the land at 
ten guineas a line and upwards. The first poem was at 
once inserted in 2,368 newspapers. It was a very fine 
poem indeed. 


SIMPSON’S SOAP. 

Vain fools are they who seek to cope 
With Simpson’s fine and matchless soap ; 
O’er all the world its worth is known. 

It brooks no rival near its throne. 

’Tis matchless for the face and hands 
Its praise is sung in many lands. 

Beware of quacks who vainly try 
To puff their wares “up to the sky," 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


m 


Reject adulterated trash. 

That only “cleans” you out of cash. 

On Simpson’s Soap we “Simpson ” sign. 

Without which none Is genuine. 

This startling attack on the other soap was not allowed 
to pass by the new and mysterious rival firm. Paragraphs 
immediately began to appear in all the papers to the effect 
that a libel action was about to be commenced by the pro- 
prietors of the “Seraphim” Soap, which would bring to 
light some extraordinary revelations as to soaps already in 
the market, and this was followed by an advertisement to 
the effect that at an early date a cake of Seraphim Soap 
would be left at the same moment of time with every 
householder in the United Kingdom, and that to accom- 
plish this feat an extraordinary plan had been devised 
which would probably have the effect of revolutionizing 
the post-office system of parcel delivery. 

Mr. Simpson was terribly upset by seeing an entirely 
new poster on the walls which caused crowds to assemble. 
It was a magnificently colored representation of a race — 
one horse was leading by twenty lengths, and the others 
were stopping in spite of the efforts of their jqckeys, with 
spur and whip, to drive them forward. The leading horse’s 
jockey had “ Seraphim Soap ” across his jacket, and the 

other jockeys had “ Soap ” on their breasts, the dash 

being used to avoid legal consequences, but, of course, 
everybody would know that Simpson’s Soap was meant 
to be among the beaten off division. 

In the meantime the Simpson travellers were writing 
up from all over the country to say that orders were not 
so easy to get, that many chemists and perfumers were 
waiting to see what the Seraphim Soap was going to be. 

Then did Mr. Simpson, roused to fury at the audacity 
of his rivals, gnash his teeth. He was beside himself with 
rage, especially as he had just made up his mind to take 
things easily and cut down the advertisements. 

The rival advertising increased in volume. The rail- 
way stations were smothered in Seraphim Soap, and to 
complete the discomfiture Mr. Smithson, who had all the 
railway stations of the metropolis, refused, when Mr. 
Simpson’s contract expired, to renew it. “I’m very 
sorry,” he wrote, “but you told me you wouldn’t renew 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


174 

yours, and I have let your positions to the Seraphim 
people.*’ 

This was the last drop in Simpson’s cup, and he became 
more furious than ever. Perhaps after all this new soap 
might be a good one. There was certainly an enormous 
fortune behind it, and the people understood the art of 
advertising as well as he did. They were perhaps young 
people, full of the dash and energy of youth, while he was 
beginning to feel that he must take things easier. 

Presently a paragraph went the. round of the press stat- 
ing that so enormous were the advance orders from 
America for Seraphim Soap that special vessels were being 
chartered to send the first consignments out. 

Mr. Simpson grew despondent. He really began to be 
afraid that Seraphim Soap might cut him out eventually, 
and his dejection was increased when, on applying for 
the back page of several society and illustrated weeklies, 
he was informed that nothing could be said at present, as 
an offer from the Seraphim Company was under con- 
sideration. 

While he was in a state of tremendous excitement about 
the matter he one day met Mr. Smithson, and in his 
anger said some very hard things. He considered he had 
been badly used by Smithson, after giving him so much 
business. 

“I’ve paid you hundreds of thousands of pounds. Smith- 
son,” he exclaimed, “and it’s a mean and disgraceful 
thing of you to fling me over for these new people. You’ll 
be sorry for it by-and-by. ” 

“I’m sorry now,” replied Smithson, “ and I’ll do what 
I can to help you.” 

“What can you do ? ” 

“Let’s talk it over. Do you want the spaces again ? ” 

“Yes, of course I do.” 

“Well, you see, it’s like this. My son took the Seraphim 
order, and it’s only for three months. The three months 
expire directly, and they’re on to Tom to renew it, and 
he’s considering the matter — in fact, we both are.’” 

“Are the railway stations up in a month too ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Smithson, old boy, give me back all your hoardings 
and all the railway stations, refuse the Seraphim orders 
altogether, and name your own price.” 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


75 


“ Very well, your daughter’s hand for my boy Arthur.” 

Mr. Simpson staggered back. This was the reason 
that he had been sacrificed for the Seraphim people then ! 

He was indignant, but he didn’t say “No” at once. 

He said he must think it over, and he went home. 

That evening Letty came to him after dinner and sat 
on the hassock at his feet, and was very nice and affec- 
tionate. 

“ Letty,” he said, presently, “what about the Duke.? 
Have you really made your mind up about him !” 

“Yes, papa, I don’t change my mind. I’ll marry Arthur 
Smithson or die an old maid.” 

Mr. Simpson sighed and thought the matter over. Of 
course he couldn’t make his daughter marry the Duke, 
and if she wouldn’t marry anybody but young Smithson 
it was certain that when she was of age she would marry 
him whether her papa consented or not. She had her 
poor dear mother’s determination, and Mr. Simpson knew 
what that meant. 

If this was the state of affairs, hadn’t he better make a 
virtue of necessity and accept Arthur as a son-in-law, and 
get the hoardings and the stations again, instead of losing 
them, and his daughter into the bargain ? 

He slept on it, and in the morning he went round to 
Smithson and consented to the match, and agreed to the 
settlement which was to be made on Letty ; and Mr. 
Smithson told him that Arthur should be taken into full 
partnership in the advertising business. 

Arthur and Letty were delighted and renewed their 
courtship at once, and immediately after the deeds were 
drawn and signed and the public announcement of the 
engagement had been made, Seraphim Soap disappeared 
from the hoardings, and Simpson’s Soap reappeared in 
all its glory with the R. A.’s design, which was quite 
ready, and represented a group of beautiful maids all 
bathing together in a river, while a lovely golden-haired 
Cupid hovered over them and gallantly offered them a 
cake of Simpson’s Soap. 

Mr. Simpson was surprised to see that the Seraphim 
people’s poster didn’t appear somewhere else, and he 
couldn’t made out why. About the same time their ad- 
vertisements dropped out of all the newspapers. 

But one day Letty came to him and said, “Papa, 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


176 

please don't be angry, I want to tell you something. 
Arthur was the Seraphim Soap.” 

“What!” 

Mr. Simpson almost jumped three feet out of his 
chair. 

“Yes, papa,” said Letty, a little nervously, “it cost 
him a lot of money, nearly ten thousand pounds ; but, as 
I shall have a hundred thousand the day we’re married, 
it doesn’t matter, does it ? ” 

Gradually it all came out. There was no soap at all. 
Arthur and his father had worked the whole thing be- 
tween them, to bring Mr. Simpson to his senses, and to 
save Letty from the Duke. 

“ But, ” exclaimed Mr. Simpson, when he knew all, 
“why go to so much expense.? Letty meant to marry 
you all along.” 

“Yes, papa,” replied Letty, with a little blush, “but 
we didn’t want to have to wait till I was twenty-one ; 
did we, Arthur.?” 

“ No, we didn’t,” said Arthur. 

“And we didn’t want you to give all your money to 
the hospitals ; did we, Arthur .? ” 

“ No, we thought it would be very useful to us,” said 
Arthur. 

At first IVIr. Simpson was inclined to be in a great rage 
and to say he had been tricked and duped, etc., etc., but 
gradually he recovered his good temper, and at last he 
was able to laugh at the whole thing and to say it was a 
good joke though rather an expensive one. 

It was too expensive to waste, and presently he saw a 
way of using it. 

A little later on the newspapers of the world announced 
that the Seraphim Soap had been withdrawn from the 
market in consequence of Mr. Simpson having discovered 
that it was a direct imitation of his, and he had so terrified 
the proprietors that they had withdrawn their advertise- 
ments and destroyed the entire stock. 

Consequently all the enormous orders for Seraphim 
Soap were cancelled, and the customers were supplied 
with Simpson’s instead, which brought everything right 
at last. 

Arthur Smithson and Letty Simpson are married and 
very happy^ and when a dear little baby appeared on the 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


177 


scene his affectionate grandpapa sent a cake of Simpson’s 
Soap to every known baby in the United Kingdom in 
honor of the event. 

The Duke of Knocklands eventually got over his disap- 
pointment and married £200,000 worth of hair restorer, 
but he continues to be just as bald as ever. To this day 
his wife cannot understand why he never sees a cake of 
Simpson's Soap without shedding a tear. You and I, 
gentle reader, can guess the reason, which is that Letty 
Simpson was a pretty, attractive little girl, and it is un- 
stood that the daughter of the marvellous hair producer 
has a temper of her own, and is on the wrong side of 
thirty. But, it would be both ungallant and unkind to 
let the Duchess into the secret 


IX. 

A CASUAL MEETING. 

It was a bitter afternoon in January, and the casuals 
who stood outside St Mary’s Workhouse, waiting for the 
hour at which they would be admitted, were blue with 
the cold. 

They huddled close together for warmth, and crouched 
against the wall for shelter, but the north wind found them 
out and vented its wrath upon them. 

There were not more than a dozen outcasts in the group 
as yet, for it was only four o’clock, and there were two 
good hours before the little door would open and the 
needy and the hungry ones would be allowed to enter the 
shelter provided for them by the parish authorities. 

There was very little conversation. It wasn’t the 
weather in which folks cared to open their mouths more 
than they could help. The men had their ragged coat 
collars turned up about their necks and their hands thrust 
deep into their trousers pockets. The women — there were 
only two, both old and gray and weather-beaten, had 
rolled their arms up in some mysterious way in theii thin 
dirty shawls, and kept their chins well down to protect their 
throats from the razor-like slashes of the icy gusts that 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


178 

swept round the corner and spent their fury on the work-r 
house wall. 

For over an hour, gaunt and grim, with almost expres- 
sionless faces, these poor wretches stood and waited 
against the workhouse wall, and hardly a sound broke 
the dreary silence that reigned over the desolate scene. 

As the clock struck five, a further contingent of casuals 
joined the group. Three men came up together in the 
listless pauper fashion, and silently took their places. 
But behind them walked a man who didn’t shuffle, who 
didn’t even stroll, but who absolutely stepped out in a 
bold independent fashion ; and who, instead of slinking 
up to the wall and crouching against it, looked the as- 
sembled company up and down, then put his hands in his 
pockets, whistled to himself and began to march up and 
down like a sentry on duty. 

This man at once attracted the attention of the other 
casuals. Their listless appearance vanished, and it was 
evident that they were interested in the new-comer. They 
“took his measure quickly. “He ain’t a reg’lar,” said 
one man to his next door neighbor. “ No,” was the reply, 
“looks like a gentleman, millingtary man, I should say, 
by his walk.” 

The new-comer saw that he was being criticised, and 
thought it was a favorable opportunity to be agreeable to 
his comrades in misfortune. 

“ What time does this place open he asked. 

“Six o’clock, sir,” replied the man who had suspected 
the stranger of being “millingtary.” The “sir” was in- 
voluntary, but it didn’t seem to sound at all unusual to 
the person addressed. 

“Decent sort of a place, this.?” he asked. 

“ Not so bad as some of ’em. You ain’t tried many, I 
suppose, yet.” 

“ No, I can’t say I have.” 

“I thought not. Well, I’ll give you a tip as may be 
useful to you. If you slept in a casual ward in London 
last night, don’t say so. Say you slept somewhere as is 
outside the meterypolertan airier, as they call it.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, why am I to say that .? ” 

“Why, cus if you say that you slept in a casual ward 
last night, as is inside the meterypolertan airier, they can 
keep you here three days afore they let you go. See ? ” 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


179 

“Oh, that’s it, is it? ” replied the “ millingtary ” casual. 
“Thank you, my friend, for the hint. Fortunately I 
shan’t have to tell a story, because I didn’t sleep in a 
casual ward last night.” 

“P'raps you ain’t never slept in one afore?” 

“Quite right — this is my first experience.” 

“But it won’t be your last,” exclaimed a tall, well-built 
middle-aged man, who had taken no previous part in the 
conversation. ‘ ‘ The casual system is arranged for en- 
durance. It keeps a man when he gets him. Once accept 
the hospitality of the parish authorities and you’re their 
guest for life. That’s my experience, and I’ve had a 
good long one.” 

The man who was making his first experiment in 
casual life looked hard at the new speaker, and his glance 
was returned. Both men knew what the other casuals 
only guessed, that they were gentlemen ; that is to say, 
men of superior social position and education. 

The “new” casual carried his credentials not only in 
his face, but in his general bearing. His clothes were old 
and weather beaten, but they were well cut, and he had 
evidently once been measured for them. His hands were 
soft and small (no uncommon thing in casuals, as many 
of them never did any work in their lives but that re- 
quired by the workhouse regulations) ; they were also 
clean (a great rarity among casuals). His features, too, 
were refined, and at the first glance you would have said 
“This is a young fellow of good birth, who has gone to 
the bad.” How much to the bad you would have guessed 
by his clothes, and the fact that he was waiting to be 
admitted to the casual ward. His age was more difficult 
to give than his social status. He might have been any- 
thing between twenty and thirty. 

The “ old” casual was a different stamp of man. Tall, 
squarely built, with a fine, dark brown beard and a mass 
of wavy hair that still showed how black it had been, by 
the dark patches that yet remained among the gray. His 
faced was deeply lined, and showed the undoubted marks 
of drink and dissipation, “This is a man who has lived 
his life,” you would say. “He is probably not more 
than forty-five, but he looks sixty.” 

A little before six, the door was opened by the porter, 
and the casuals trooped into the yard together, and then 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


180 

entered the office one by one to answer the stereotypea 
questions, and to have their answers registered according 
to law. 

The two “ gentlemen ” found themselves in the office 
together. 

The elder one stepped up to the officer’s desk with a 
readiness which could only come of a perfect familiarity 
with the usual routine. 

“ Your name } ” 

“ John Harwood.” 

“ Age ?” 

“ Forty-six.” 

“ Trade ? ” 

John Harwood shrugged his shoulders and answered 

-Clerk.” 

- Where did you sleep last night ? ” 

- Watford.” 

- Where are you going ? ” 

- Blackheath.” 

- Got any money ? ” 

John Harwood put his hand in his pocket and pulled 
out a penny, which the officer took, according to the rule 
that all money found on a casual shall be given up by him. 

The formula having been gone through, John Harwood 
stepped outside, took his mug of “skilly” and the 
square of bread placed on top of it, and passed into the 
room where the casuals take their supper previous to 
having their bath and going to their cell. 

But in taking his supper from the tray outside, he 
managed to linger long enough to hear the “ new ” 
casual’s answers. 

“ Your name ? ” 

“ Edward Darvell.” 

- Age ? ” 

- Twenty-four.” 

-Trade?” 

- I have none.” 

The officer looked up and scanned the applicant pro- 
fessionally. 

“ Humph ! ” he said, “ a gentleman, I suppose.” 

“ I was, but you can put me down what you like.” 

“ Where did you sleep last night ? ” 

- Bow Street Police Station.” 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


8i 


Again the officer looked up. 

“ I was charged with being drunk and disorderly and 
locked up ail night. To-day the magistrate dismissed me. 
Do you want to know all about it ? ” 

No. Where are you going } ” 

“ God knows. I don’t, unless it’s to the devil.” 

“ I can’t write that,” said the officer, though he had 
mechanically begun to write “ The devil,” in the space 
assigned to “Where going to.” “ Say somewhere else?” 

“ Very well,” say Gravesend. 

“Got any money ? ” 

“ Not a rap.” 

“That’ll do.” 

The officer pointed to the door, and Edward Darvell 
passed out and was going into the opposite room without 
taking his gruel and bread from the tray. _ 

“Here you — ’’.shouted the porter in charge of the re- 
freshments, “ don’t you want your supper ? ” 

“ Oh, thank you,” said Darvell, turning back, “I didn’t 
know — I’m — er — not used to the ways of the establish- 
ment yet.” 

He took the mug of thick steaming liquid and the hunk 
of bread, and went into a narrow bare room, and sat on a 
form with a score of other casuals ; and it wasn’t till the 
gruel and the bread were gone, and he felt that he could 
do with a steak and a pint of beer, that he remembered he 
had had nothing to eat since the frugal breakfast that had 
been supplied to him in the prison cell. 

On an opposite form to him sat the man who had given 
the name of John Harwood. They were both called to 
take their hot bath at the same time. 

As they went along the passage, Harwood whispered 
to him, “We shall both be discharged to-morrow, after 
we’ve done our task. 1 shall get through my oakum be- 
fore you, because I’m used to it. But I’ll wait outside till 
you come. I want to have a talk with you.” 

“All right,” said Darvell, “that’s an appointment. 
Good night.” 

It was all new and strange to Edward Darvell, and the 
novelty was quite a relief. He almost found himself 
laughing as he got out of the casuals’ bath, and found a 
coarse check shirt and a pair of slippers waiting for him 
to put on. And when he had got into the little hard bed 


82 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


in the narrow cell in which all casuals are now confined, 
he felt that if he could only have had a pipe he should 
have been quite comfortable. 

But a pipe was impossible under the circumstances, so 
he turned over on his side and made up his mind to go to 
sleep. 

“By Jove,” he said to himself, as he punched the bed 
to make it a little softer; “if it weren’t so beastly low it 
would be funny. Ned Darvell, son of the richest man in 
Cumberland, affianced husband of the prettiest girl in 
England, gentleman and idiot, you are going to have a 
jolly good night’s rest in the casual ward of St. Mary’s 
Workhouse, and there’ll be nothing to pay to-morrow for 
bed or board, and if this bed isn’t both together I should 
like to know what it is.” 

Five minutes later Ned Darvell was fast asleep, and his 
dreams would doubtless have been pleasant had not a 
gnawing hunger brought on a nightmare in which he was 
being hunted over a precipice by demons, while a lovely 
girl in white muslin and a straw hat stood by and kept 
wringing her hands, and crying out “Ned, dear Ned, 
come back, come back. I love you and you alone, and 
no other man shall ever be my husband. ” 


It was long past eleven the next morning before Edward 
Darvell had picked the regulation amount of oakum, for 
it was his first attempt at that delightful occupation, and 
he was awkward at it, as all beginners are. But he got 
through the task at last, and was not at all sorry when he 
found himself once more a free man, in the open air, 
“ the world before him where to choose.” 

The weather, by one of those sudden freaks of the 
English climate, had changed suddenly from cold to 
warm, and the sun had even put on a good-humored 
smile, and the young casual actually began to whistle as 
he left the workhouse gates. 

He had quite forgotten the appointment made the pre- 
vious evening with his new acquaintance, but he remem- 
bered it directly he saw that gentleman, with his hands 
in his pockets, lolling against a post at the street corner, 
and evidently waiting for him. 

Well, my lad ! ” exclaimed the man who had given 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 183 

the name of John Harwood to the workhouse official, 
“ how did you like the casual ward ?” 

“ Oh, it wasn’t so very awful,” replied Darvell,^'‘but I 
didn’t care about the oakum. ” 

“ Where are you going to now ? ” 

Goodness knows, I don’t.” 

“ Haven’t you any friends ? ” 

Plenty ! but none I should care to call upon in this 
condition.” 

You seem a decent sort of young fellow, and I’m 
always sorry to see a decent lad and a gentleman, as I 
know you are, come to this. I’m a perfect stranger to 
you, and I daresay my appearance isn’t calculated to in- 
spire confidence, but I wish you’d tell me what brought 
you to this. I might be able to help you.” 

Ned Darvell looked at his new acquaintance. John 
Harwood was a gentleman, or at any rate a man who had 
been well educated and had mixed in good society — you 
could tell that in a minute by his bearing and his manner 
of talking. 

“ Well,” said Ned, “if you particularly want to know 
what brought me to this. I’ll tell you. My evil genius.” 

“ Male or female ? ” 

“ Male ! The only person of the softer sex who has 
any influence over me is my good genius. My evil 
genius is myself ! ” 

“ Humph ! Was it drink or gambling .? ” 

“Gambling. Here’s the story in a nutshell. My mother 
died when I was a boy. My father never cared about me. 
He is a selfish man, utterly wrapped up in himself and 
his property. He made me an allowance which was a 
beggarly one, and I got into debt before I knew where I 
was. After I left college I got in with a rather fast set of 
men, and I went the pace, as all young fellows do. Then 
came settling day, and I couldn’t settle, so I went to my 
father. He bullied me and insulted me, and we had a 
row. I spoke my mind, and he didn’t like it, and the 
end of it was that I flounced out of the house. I 
went to the men I owed money to and .told them it 
was a debt of honor, and every shilling should be paid if 
they would give me time. Then I sold off what few 
things I had at my chambers, took a cheap lodging 
and tried to get a berth as a clerk. Nobody would have 


tal:e8 of to-day. 


me, for I write a fearful hand, and am generally a very 
useless sort of person. That was two months ago. My 
money gradually went, and then to pay my landlady I 
sold my clothes, all I could spare, and then, by degrees, 
I came down to this. 

“The night before last, having had nothing to eat all 
day, I met an old friend, who insisted on my having a 
drink with him. I was hungry, but he never suggested 
anything to eat. I was down in the mouth, and I sup- 
pose the drink got into my head. At any rate I got into 
a crowd round two men fighting at the corner of the street, 
and a policeman came up and shoved me about, and I 
let out at him, and he ran me in for being drunk and dis- 
orderly. When I came out I thought, having tried 
the police-station, I might as well try the casual ward. 
My landlady is a good soul, but I owe her rent now, and 
I don’t think I’ll let her in for any more.” 

“And what do you propose to do now ? ” 

“Wait till to-night, I suppose, and then pick some more 
oakum for a bed and breakfast. What are you going to 
do ? ” 

“ Well, I want to get to Highgate to-day. I’ve an ap- 
pointment with a lady up that way, and I want to keep 
it if I can.” 

Ned Darvell looked at the ragged casual and laughed. 
It seemed so droll for such a poor miserable wretch to 
talk about having an appointment with a lady. 

“ Is she young and pretty.? ” he said, with an involun- 
tary smile. 

“Yes. She is quite young and very pretty.” 

“Well, old fellow, two are company and three are none 
under such circumstances. So I suppose we must say 
good day.” 

“Not at all. I want you to come with me.” 

“ Whatever for ? ” 

“ Never mind ! Will you come. You’ll be doing me a 
great service. ” 

“You are going to Highgate, you say.” 

“Yes.” . 

Ned Darvell hesitated. The young lady to whom he 
was engaged, Belle Mortimer, lived at Highgate. Her 
mother’s house — the house where he had once been a 
welcome visitor, was on the High Road. Suppose he 


TALES OF TO-I)AY. 


185 

should be seen by ciny of her household, seen under the 
weather and out at elbows, and in company with a tramp ! 
He didn’t relish the idea at all. 

“ I have friends at Highgate,” he said. “ I don’t care 
to be seen in the neighborhood in this condition.” 

“ We needn’t be seen,” replied his friend. “My ap- 
pointment is in Highgate Woods, a lonely place at this 
time of the year, and we can get there without going by 
the main road. Will you come ? ” 

“ Well, if you particularly wish it, yes, but I don’t see 
what assistance I can be to you.” 

“ ril be candid with you. I want you to keep the ap- 
pointment in my place.” 

“I don’t understand you.” 

“ I will explain. The young lady I am to meet simply 
brings me an answer to a letter which I wrote some days 
since. It may be a verbal message, it may be a written 
one. Whichever it is, she will give it you if you say 
that I am unable to be there and that lyou have come as 
my messenger.” 

“But why shouldn’t you go yourself.?” 

“Because I have an idea that the girl may be watched. 
On two occasions when we have endeavored to meet 
we have been unable to do so, as the girl was followed 
from her home. If she were seen with me the result to 
her would be disastrous.” 

“But if she is followed and seen with me,” said the 
young man, “ surely that would be to her disadvantage.” 

John Harwood shook his head. 

“No,” he said, “ you are not what I am. I give you 
my solemn oath that no harm can come to that girl if she 
is seen meeting you. Come, will you help me ? ” 

The words were spoken so earnestly, and Harwood 
appeared so anxious, that Darvell, who had always found 
it difficult to say “No” when pressed, conquered his 
scruples, and, making up his mind that there could be no 
harm in seeing this curious episode out, agreed at last to 
the arrangement, and the two casuals set out in the direc- 
tion of Highgate. 

Arrived at the corner of Wood-lane, the two men parted, 
Harwood pointing out to his companion a public-house 
further up the road where he would await his return, and 


i86 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


Darvell going on to Highgate Woods, the spot in which 
the rendezvous had been arranged. 

“ Follow the public footpath through the wood till you 
get to the stile at the end, near which there is a sign-post, 
on which it says, ‘To Muswell Hill.’ At three o’clock a 
young lady will come to the stile and wait.” 

“ How shall I know her 

“There are not likely to be many people there at this 
time of day and this season of the year. And you will 
see at once if she is expecting some one. All you have 
to say is ‘I come from John Harwood. He cannot come 
himself,’ and she will give you the message I am waiting 
for. You will bring it to me at the place I have indi- 
cated. ” 

“It’s a queer business,” thought Darvell, “but I sup- 
pose the man, like myself, is well connected, though 
down in the world. Probably this is his method of com- 
municating with a relative who keeps up the acquaintance 
against the wishes of the family.” 

Ned Darvell found the path through Highgate Woods 
easily enough. The wood was perfectly deserted and he 
had it entirely to himself till he reached the stile. There 
was no one there, so he sat down and looked about him. 
The view was a glorious one. Before him lay the north- 
ern Heights of London, and to the left, on a lofty emi- 
nence, the Palace-crowned Hill of Muswell. He fell into 
a reverie and had forgotten all about his mission, so ab- 
sorbed was he in thought, when the sound of a light foot- 
step behind him recalled him to the situation. 

He turned and found himself face to face with a young 
lady, deeply veiled. 

As he turned, the young lady uttered a cry of astonish- 
ment. 

“ Ned ! ” she said. 

Ned Darvell could hardly believe that he was not dream- 
ing. Before him stood Belle Mortimer, his sweetheart, 
the one woman of all others that he did not wish to meet 
in his present pitiful plight. 

“Belle,” he exclaimed, “I — I — didn’t expect to see 
you here.” 

“Oh, Ned, my poor Ned, how ill you look. I didn’t 
know it was so bad as this.” 

“Don’t look at me, Belle, dear ;^don’t pity me. It’s all 


TALES OF TChDAY, 187 

my own fault, and — I — I daresay it will all come right 
by-and-by. ” 

“But, Ned, you must be cold without an overcoat, and 
you look ill and hungry. I thought you were going to 
get some employment" 

“ I’ve tried. Belle, but I haven’t succeeded yet But 
don’t talk about me. Let us talk about yourself. Are 
you well, dear — well and happy ? ’’ 

Belle hesitated. 

“How can I be happy, Ned, now I know what has 
happened to you. Oh, Ned, I'm sure if your father knew 
you had come to this ’’ 

Ned shrugged his shoulders. 

“ My dear Belle, he would say it served me right, and 
I dare say it does. There, my darling, don’t you fret I 
have had rather a rough time of it, but the experience 
won’t be thrown away. I shall get myself right yet 
The next time you see me I shall be looking very differ- 
ent to this.’’ 

“ Ned,’’ said the girl, softly, “you won’t mind what 
I’m going to say, dear? Won’t you let me lend you a 
little money? I have some put by, you know, and ^’’ 

Ned held up his hand. 

“Belle, if you love me, don’t talk to me like that It’s 
going to be a hard fight for me, I know ; but I’m never 
going to borrow a penny again, and certainly not of 
you. Come, talk about something else. What brings you 
here ? ’’ 

Belle blushed, aad then the blood left her cheeks and 
they went white as death. 

“I can’t tell you, Ned,’’ she said. 

Instantly the truth flashed across Ned Darvell’s mind. 
Belle — his Belle, was the pretty young lady who had 
an appointment with the casual from St. Mary’s Work- 
house. 

Bewildered, confused, horrified, Ned hardly knew how 
to frame his next question. 

“Belle," he stammered, “ you are here to give a me.s- 
sage to a man, who was to have met you at this stile at 
three o’clock ! ’’ 

“Oh, Ned, how do you know that?” cried the girl, 
the blood rushing back to her cheeks again. 

“lam here to receive that message, the man does not 


i88 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


care to come himself, and has sent me instead. He told 
me that you would understand everything."’ 

“What,” exclaimed the girl, in genuine astonishment, 
“My father has sent you to me ! ” 

“Your father! Good God, Belle, do you mean to say 
that the wretched, broken-down tramp I have just left is 
your father .? ” 

“Yes. Oh, Ned, it is painful story. I should never 
have told you — it is our family secret, and a terrible 
one it has been. But you know it now and perhaps it is 
best ” 

Ned gave an involuntary shudder. He forgot that he 
was little better than a tramp himself for the time being. 
He only thought of John Harwood, the man he had 
made “pals” with in the casual ward of St. Mary’s, and 
asked himself how such a man could be the father of his 
beautiful, innocent, delicate Belle. 

“I am here for a message you have to give this man. 
Belle,” he said, hoarsely, “let me have it and go.” 

“ Yes,” replied the girl, sadly, “I had forgotten that. 
Tell him, Ned, that Hush I ” 

There was a sound of crackling branches in the wood. 

Instantly the words of John Harwood came to Ned’s 
mind, “I have reason to believe the young lady may be 
followed.” Before he had time to ask Belle a question, a 
lady, who had evidently been hiding among the thick 
trees of the wood, came out into the open. 

Ned recognized her at once. It was Mrs. Mortimer. 

“So Belle,” she said, “this is why you steal out so 
quietly without saying a word to me. Where was the 
necessity for this secrecy ? I have never forbidden you 
to see Mr. Darvell.? ” 

“No, mother, but I ” 

Mrs. ' Mortimer looked at Ned. 

“Oh, Mr. Darvell,” she said, “how sorry I am for you. 
It quite shocks me to see you like this. You are a very 
foolish young man. The idea of a young fellow in your 
position, with your prospects, masquerading in this way, 
and going about like a tramp.” 

“I assure you, Mrs. Mortimer,” stammered Ned, “that 
I’m not masquerading.” 

“Oh, nonsense, of course you are. It’s too ridiculous. 
I had no idea you were going to be absurd enough to 


TALES OP TO-LAT. 


189 

neglect yoiir wardrobe and go about in this ridiculous 
fashion, and you really look as if you hadn’t had a decent 
meal for a week. Belle, we must insist upon Ned coming 
back home with us and staying to dine.” 

Ned looked down involuntarily at his costume. 

“ Really, my dear Mrs. Mortimer,” he said, “I couldn’t, 
indeed I couldn’t. Whatever would the servants think ? ” 

“They’ll think as I do, that Mr. Edward Darvell has 
been making himself ridiculous. Come, Belle, add your 
commands to my entreaties.” 

Belle looked at her lover piteously. 

“ Come,” she said. 

And as the elder lady turned away, she whispered “I 
can give you the message then.” 

Darvell was on the horns of a dilemma. He had no 
message to take back as yet, and he was eager to know 
something more of Belle’s father from the girl’s own 
lips. 

He had always understood that Mrs. Mortimer was a 
widow ; that her husband had died many years ago 
abroad. The incidents of the day had come upon him as 
a startling revelation which had utterly bewildered him. 

“Harwood will wait,” he thought; “he won’t go till 
I come back, and I may as well take him all the informa- 
tion I can. Besides, for Belle’s sake and my own I ought 
to know a little more about him.” 

“Come, Mr. Darvell,” said Mrs. Mortimer, breaking in 
upon his cogitation ; “ we are waiting for you. If Belle 
and I are not ashamed of you. I’m sure you needn’t mind 
what the servants think. ” 

A quarter of an hour later, Edward Darvell was seated 
in the big dining-room of the Laurels, Southwood Lawn, 
Highgate, and Mr. John Harwood was getting extremely 
anxious about half a mile away, and wondering what had 
happened to detain his messenger so long. 

Walking with Belle Mortimer to her mother’s house, 
Edward Darvell, in his delight at this unexpected tete-a- 
tete with his sweetheart, forgot everything except the 
pleasure of the moment, and it was not until he caught the 
expression of surprise on the face of the maid-servant 
who opened the door, that he remembered how utterly 
unsuited his general get-up was to an afternoon call at a 
lady’s house. 


190 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


Mrs. Mortimer, who for some reason or other was un- 
usually gracious, however, soon put him at his ease, and, 
in spite of his mild protestations that he really wasn’t at 
all hungry, insisted upon having some sandwiches and 
sherry brought up, to which the “casual” did ample 
justice. 

‘ ‘ Now, Edward Darvell, ” said the elder lady, as soon 
as the sandwiches had disappeared, “will you kindly tell 
me how much longer this absurdity is to last ? ” 

“ My dear Mrs. Mortimer,” replied the young man, “I 
have no doubt I cut a supremely ridiculous figure in your 
eyes, and I daresay nine people out of every ten would 
share your views as to my conduct, but I have taken an 
oath, and I mean to abide by it whatever may be the con- 
sequences. In three years at the outside my debts will 
be paid with the income which I do not touch, and 
then ’ 

“ And then what will you be worth? ” interrupted Mrs. 
Mortimer, almost angrily. “Three years of such a life 
as you are leading now will have ruined you physically, 
morally, and socially. You forget that you have not only 
your own interests to consult. There is Belle to be con- 
sidered. I had no idea that the future husband of my 
daughter had become a — you must excuse me if I say it — 
a wandering outcast ! ” 

“ Oh, mamma,” cried Belle, “I’m sure he isn’t an out- 
cast ! ” 

“ At any rate, my dear, he is not in a fit position to 
appear in public as your affianced lover.” 

“You are quite right,” exclaimed Darvell, as he looked 
down at his costume and surveyed his boots. “ But Belle 
has promised to wait for me, and my income will one 
day be all my own again, and of course at my father’s 
death I shall be a rich man.” 

“ Your father may live to be a hundred. Now, listen 
to me. After seeing you to-day, I have come to a deter- 
mination which nothing will alter. Either you will at 
once make your reappearance in society as a gentleman, 
or I withdraw my sanction to your engagement with my 
daughter. ” 

“You are cruel ? ” cried Ned. 

“Well, if I am, I am cruel to oe kind. Eor reasons 
into which I cannot enter now I want you and Belle to 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


191 

be married during the present year. But she cannot 
marry you in your present position." 

“No, of course not," said Ned, sorrowfully. 

“Then as an honorable man you must give her up. 
If you choose to sacrifice her happiness and her interests 
to your own whims and fancies, you must do so, but you 
must take the consequences." 

“Mamma, I will never marry anybody but Ned," 
broke in Belle, passionately. “I shall be of age next 
year, and I can do as I like. I don’t want to be disobedi- 
ent, but I will be engaged to Ned, and it shan't be broken 
off, and I’ll wait for him as long as he likes to ask me, so 
there ! ’’ 

The last words were accompanied by a little stamp of 
the foot, and then the girl broke down, and with a little 
sob, half grief, half passion, flounced out of the room. 

Mrs. IVIortimer shrugged her shoulders, and Ned felt 
extremely uncomfortable. 

While he was trying to think of something to urge in 
extenuation of his conduct, Mrs. Mortimer saved him any 
further trouble. 

“ Mr. Dar veil," she said, “after what has occurred, I 
need hardly point out to you that you can no longer be 
received as a guest in this house." 

“I understand you, madam," exclaimed Ned, rising 
and mechanically buttoning his threadbare coat across 
his chest, “ you wish me to go. " 

“ It is useless to prolong a painful interview. I expect 
you now, as a man of honor, to abstain from any further 
communication with my daughter. If you reconsider 
your ridiculous determination and make friends with your 
father again, and take your proper position in society, 
you can call upon me again, and we will discuss the 
matter further ; but until then I forbid you to address my 
daughter or to hold any communication with her, and I 
consider the engagement between you at an end. Good 
day, Mr. Darvell, and good-bye." 

Mrs. Mortimer rose and rang the bell, and held out her 
hand to the young man. 

Instead of taking it he bowed coldly and went out into 
the hall. 

The servant who had answered the bell at a word from 
her mistress, opened the front door, and Darvell, taking 


192 TALES OF TO-EA K 

his shabby hat from the hat stand, walked out like a man 
in a dream. 

And it wasn’t till he found himself at the end of the 
lane, that it occurred to him that his own trouble had 
made him entirely forget the errand with which John 
Harwood had entrusted him. 

He had seen Belle for the last time, and he had left her 
without receiving the message which he was to carry to 
her father. 

Belle’s father ! Mrs. Mortimer’s husband ! Why hadn’t 
he thought of that before. Here was a lady denouncing 
him as a tramp, and her own husband was a homeless 
vagrant, too — an outcast, sleeping in casual wards, 
while she was living in luxury. She objected to him as 
a son-in-law but had not he the right to turn the tables 
upon her and say that he was quite as good as the man 
who was to be his father-in-law. 

His father-in-law ! Of course he would marry Belle — 
if her father had been a thief or a murderer that would 
make no difference in his affection for her^ — but it would 
be a fine weapon to use against Mrs. Mortimer, and for 
Belle’s sake and his own he would use it, but he should 
have to know a little more of the family history first. 

And who could tell him anything about that history now 
but the man himself — Mrs. Mortimer’s husband? Ned 
hadn’t the answer to take back to that gentleman, but he 
had a good many questions to ask him, and he would ask 
them then and there, and then they would see if Mrs. 
Mortimer would not be inclined to come down off the 
high horse a little. 

When Ned Darvell reached the place where John Har- 
wood was waiting, he found that worthy pacing up and 
down, evidently in a state of considerable anxiety. 

Directly he saw Ned coming he walked towards him 
rapidly, and said, “Well, you saw her. She gave you a 
message ; whatever kept you so long ? Quick, what was 
the message ? ” 

“ I haven’t brought any message,” replied Ned, quietly. 

“No message — didn’t you see the young lady ?” 

“Yes, I saw her, but before she could tell me anything 
her mother came upon the scene ! ” 

“Ah, I expected that.” 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


m 

''Then, as you expected it, why did you imagine that 
it would do the young lady no harm to be seen by her 
mother in conversation with me ? ” 

“ No mother would be very much shocked to find that 
her daughter had gone out with her affianced husband.” 

“You knew, then, that I was engaged to Belle ? ” 

“ Certainly I did.” 

“But how — I was a stranger to you, you didn’t even 
know my name.” 

“ Pardon me, I heard you give your name to the officer 
last night. You fortunately didn’t think of giving a false 
one.” 

‘ ‘ But who told you that I, Edward Darvell, was en- 
gaged to Miss Mortimer? ” 

“ Miss Mortimer herself.” 

“ Then you have been in the habit of meeting her ? ” 

“No. I have not seen her since she was a child. To- 
day was to have been our first meeting.” 

“Mr. Harwood, it is useless for me to pretend ignor- 
ance of your secret,” said Ned, now thoroughly mystified. 

‘ ‘ I learnt from Belle’s own lips that you are her father. 
Now, I must ask you to enlighten me a little further. 
You profess to know of your daughter’s engagement to 
me, and yet you have never seen her, and you obtained 
the information from her. How ? ” 

John Harwood put his hand into the breast pocket of 
his ragged coat, and drew out a letter which he handed to 
Darvell. 

Ned took the letter. At the first glance he recognized 
the writing. It was Belle’s. 

“ My dear father,” it began, “I cannot tell you how 
grieved I was to get your letter and to hear you were in 
such terrible distress. I have respected your wish, and 
said nothing to my mother of the communication you 
have made to me, but it has pained me dreadfully to have 
to act without her knowledge. I was too young when 
you went away to remember much of you. I was always 
told that my papa had died abroad, and it was not till the 
time when my mother consented to my engagement with 
Mr. Edward Darvell that I learned the truth, and that you 
were still alive. Of course, I will do as you ask, and 
give you the money to go away with, but how am I to do 


194 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


so ? I have fifty pounds of my own saved, and I will 
gladly send it, but you give no address, except that I am 
to give my reply to this letter to your messenger, and I 
don’t know whether it would be safe to give him the 
money also. Why won’t you let me tell mamma? Per- 
haps all might come right, and this terrible quarrel might 
be made up if you met I will go, as you ask me, next 
Wednesday to the stile in Highgate Wood, and wait for 
your messenger to come again ; but let me know in your 
note what to do about the money. 

“Your affectionate daughter, 

“ Belle.” 

Darvell read the letter through, and then he read it 
again. 

“Belle is going to give you the money to go away 
somewhere with. Was it this money you expected me to 
bring back ? ” 

“ Yes ; my first messenger was a man I could not trust. 

I dared not write to my daughter at the house, because her 
mother would probably have seen the letter and inter- 
cepted it. So I found out where Belle was in the habit of 
walking, and my messenger watched his opportunity and 
gave her my letter.” 

“ Why didn’t you go yourself? ” 

“Because I was afraid of being recognized.” 

“By whom?” 

“By my wife — by one of the old servants. I never 
know who might be about, or who might come upon us.” 

“Then you sent a message to Belle that some one • 
would meet her to-day ? ” 

“Yes; a messenger whom she could trust with the 
money.” 

“When did you send that message ? ” 

“This morning, directly I left the workhouse. I sent 
it because I had found in you the very man who could do 
the business without exciting suspicion in case Belle, as I 
suspected, was being watched by her mother.” 

“ But why should Belle be watched by her mother ? ” 

“ My wife may have heard that I have been seen 
about the neighborhood, and may have had an idea that! 
was in communication with my daughter.” 

“ And what harm if you were ? ” 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


195 


“ None to me — a great deal to Belle. My wife divorced 
me. It’s not a nice story, and I need not go into it. It 
was my own fault, and I have paid for it bitterly.” 

It was a strange story for Ned Darvell to hear, and he 
had to think it well over to himself before he quite grasped 
it But he understood that the broken-down loafer he 
was talking to, was the father of his affianced wife, and 
looking at him, he quite understood Mrs. Mortimer’s 
desire to keep father and daughter apart. 

“ Well,” he said, after a long pause, “you’ve chosen 
an unfortunate messenger. I haven’t brought you back 
what you expected, and Mrs. Mortimer has forbidden me 
to hold any further communication with her daughter. ” 

“ I’m very sorry,” replied Harwood, “ but I couldn’t 
foresee that. The thing is now, what can we do ? ” 

“ You must do as you choose. It is no concern of 
mine.” 

“ Don’t turn nasty, Darvell ; if Belle trusts me, I think 
you might. I want that money, and it’s better for all of 
us that I should have it. It will be far better for you to 
have a father-in-law who is a decent member of society 
than one who is — well, what I am now.” 

“ If you want the money from Belle and she is sil — I 
mean generous enough to give it you, you must get an- 
other go between, Mr. Harwood. I am forbidden to see 
her again.” 

“ By her mother ? But Belle will see you.” 

“ No, I’ve made up my mind to that. Mrs. Mortimer 
is quite right. In my present condition I am not a fit 
associate for Belle.” 

John Harwood shrugged his shoulders. “If that’s the 
sort of man you are,” he said, “ I think my wife’s right, 
and my daughter is well rid of you.” 

“ Thank you. I am not sure that your good opinion 
would be an advantage to me, so Tm satisfied to be with- 
out it.” 

“ Come, Darvell, don’t be in a huff because things have 
gone a bit wrong. Help me in this matter and I’ll help 
you. You may be glad of my friendship yet.” 

“ When I want it I’ll ask for it. Knowing what I do 
now, I think Mrs. Mortimer was quite right to keep Belle 
in ignorance of your existence, and I’m not going to help 
you to defeat her wishes. At any rate I’m not going to 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


196 

help you to get Belle into trouble, so good afternoon.” 

Ned was in a bit of a temper. He was upset and hurt 
at what had happened to himself through trying to do 
Harwood a good turn, and rightly or wrongly, he looked 
upon him as the cause of his quarrel with Belle’s mother. 
He felt inclined to quarrel with everybody, and he com- 
menced by quarrelling with the cause of his misfortune. 
And more than all, he felt rather indignant that such a 
person should be the father of the girl he loved, and in- 
tended one day to make his wife. ‘ 

Harwood made an attempt to continue the argument, 
but Darvell refused to listen and strode off at top speed 
in the direction of the Great City. 


Ned Darvell slept that evening in another casual ward, 
and having the honesty to say where he had slept the pre- 
vious evening, he was, in accordance with the House- 
less Poor Act, detained a prisoner for three days. 

Mrs. Mortimer, after Ned’s departure, went upstairs to 
her daughter’s room and found her sobbing bitterly. 

‘ ' What I have done is for your good, Belle, ” she said. 
“Come, dry your eyes and listen to me.” 

Belle listened, but she didn’t dry her eyes. She couldn’t, 
because every time she thought of Ned and his pitiable 
plight and wondered where he had gone and if she would 
ever see him again, the tears came welling up into her 
pretty blue eyes afresh. 

“ Belle, my dear,” said her mother, “when I consented 
to your engagement to Edward Darvell he was the son of 
a wealthy man, and I thought it would be in every way a 
good match for you. I was anxious to see you well mar- 
ried, because there are circumstances which you do not 
yet know connected with our family history which may 
one day cause serious trouble.” 

“You mean my father,” broke in Belle, “the father 
you told me was dead.” 

“When I told you so. Belle, I believed it. It is only 
lately that I have found out the contrary. Now, Belle, 
answer me a question. I have lately had reason to sus- 
pect that this man has been in communication with you. 
Have I been wrong .? ” 

“No, mamma.” said Belle, boldly, “you have been 
quite right.” 


TALES OE TO-DAY. 


197 

A look of deep pain passed across Mrs. Mortimer^s face. 
“I would rather anything have happened than this, 
Belle," she said. “I suppose he has asked you for 
money ? ” 

“Yes, mamma." 

“ Have you given him any?" 

“ No, but I have promised him fifty pounds. It is my 
own money that I have saved, mamma, and I have a 
right to give it to my own father if I choose." 

“ Certainly, and he shall have it. Where does he live ; 
what address did he give ? " 

“ None ; he sent a messenger for it." 

‘ ‘ A messenger ! ” 

“Yes ; Ned came from him." 

“ What ! Edward Darvell came to you as a messenger 
from my husband ? " 

“ Yes, mamma. Ned didn’t know it was my father 
who sent him, and he didn’t know that he would meet 
me ; but he was sent for my reply, and I should have 
given Ned the money to take back but you came upon 
us before I could do it, and then we all came here, and 
then you were cruel to N%d, and I was upset and forgot 
all about what he came for. 

Mrs. Mortimer was terribly shocked and grieved at the 
story which Belle had to tell. The one thing she dreaded 
most had happened. Her divorced husband, a man who 
had bitterly wronged her and robbed her, had induced her 
daughter to deceive her, and had made an accomplice of 
the man whom Belle was to marry. How these two men 
had come together was a mystery to Mrs. Mortimer, but 
she knew now that they had. 

“ I am very grieved at this. Belle," she said. I hoped 
that this man, who caused all the most terrible trouble and 
misfortune of my life, would never come across our paths 
again, and that you might be happily married without 
having this shame brought into your family circle, and 
now — well, I must see that the mischief goes no further." 

“ For the present," continued Mrs. ^Iortimer, “your 
lover must be left to follow his own devices, but this 
business with your father must be put a stop to at once. 
Painful as the meeting will be, I must see him and warn 
him of what will happen if he commences to persecute 
me through you. The question is, how am I to find him ? " 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


198 

“ He will send another messenger, perhaps. I always 
get his letters given me in the morning, when I go for a 
walk with the dogs. Shall I tell him you will see him ? ” 

“ No, he doesn’t wish to see me.” 

‘ ‘ What can I do then, mamma ? ” 

“ This. When you have another letter given you, 
answer it at once. Tell him that I shall be away from 
home on the following afternoon, and that you will meet 
him in the wood and give him the money yourself.” 

“ Is that fair, mamma ? ” 

“ Quite fair ; you shall keep your word, and you may 
give him the money. When you have given him your 
message, I will give him mine.” 

The more Belle though the matter over the more she 
felt convinced that her mother was right, and that it was 
her duty to help her in every way she could. The next 
day she went out for her walk as usual, fully expecting to 
receive a mysterious message, but none was given her. 
The next day the same' thing happened. She lingered 
about with her dogs all the morning, and no one ap- 
proached her, but on the third day, as she was crossing 
the road near the railway station, a man, who was sweep- 
ing the crossing, touched his hat to her and said in a low 
voice. “ I beg your pardon, miss, is your name Miss 
Mortimer ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Belle, “it is.” 

“ I’ve got a letter to give you, miss, and when you’ve 
read it, will you please give me an answer.” 

Belle crossed the road and read the letter. It was, as 
she expected, a letter from her father saying that he was 
in desperate need of the money which she had been un- 
able to give Mr. Darvell, and that as it would not do to 
send any one else to her for it, and he did not wish to in- 
jure her by coming himself, he had arranged with a 
friend of his to take it in. It was to be sent in a regis- 
tered letter to the enclosed address and it would be all 
right. 

The address enclosed was a lodging house in Maryle^ 
bone ; Belle, remembering her mother’s instructions, 
scribbled her little note and putting it in an envelope gave 
it to the crossing sweeper at once. 

“ That is the answer,” she said. 

This is what she had written : 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


199 


“ I would sooner give you the money yourself, and 
then I shall know it is safe. My mother will be away 
from home to-morrow, so that you can meet me in High- 
gate Woods at the stile at three o’clock in the after- 
noon. ” 

Belle watched the crossing-sweeper go off with her 
letter and then she went home and told her mother what 
had happened. 

The man who called himself John Harwood, who was 
waiting at a safe and convenient distance, duly received 
the reply. 

I’ll go,” he said, “perhaps it will be safer after all.” 

On the day that Belle Mortimer was to meet her father, 
Edward Darvell, having “ done ” his three days, was re- 
leased at eleven o’clock in the morning from the casual 
ward of the workhouse in which he had sought shelter. 

He had leisure during the three days to think seriously 
of his position, and he had determined that it would be 
better after all for him to open negotiations with his 
father. The workhouse regime and the workhouse asso- 
ciates, novel at first, had become irksome and degrading 
to him. He felt himself lowered in his own eyes, and he 
began to see that so far from asserting his independence 
he had shown his dependence, for he was eating and 
sleeping at the expense of the parish. 

He had thought a good deal during his incarceration of 
the extraordinary discovery he had made concerning 
Belle’s family history, and he kept wondering if her father 
would find a means of seeing her and getting the money 
he wanted. Instinctively he found himself wandering to- 
wards Highgate. It was in his mind to go to the meeting 
place in the woods. He had a vague idea that he might 
discover something, that he might see Harwood or Belle 
in the neighborhood. Do what he would he couldn’t 
shake the idea off, and so it came about that at two o’clock 
in the afternoon he was in the wood. 

The place was entirely deserted. There were no signs 
of any one waiting about, and Ned sat down to think out 
the future. He went a little way into the wood to find a 
nice sheltered place, and having done so, he threw him- 
self down full length and fell into a brown study. 

The silence and the soothing influence of the lonely 
spot soon affected his senses, and having had a bad night 


200 


TALES OF TO-DAT. 


in the “ cell’’ of the casual ward he presently found his 
eyes closing. Yielding to the dreamy senses of rest and 
forgetfulness which stole over him, he soon fell alseep. 

At a few minutes to three, Belle Mortimer came along 
Wood-lane, passed into the wood and made her way 
rapidly to the stile at the end which looks out upon Mus- 
well Hill and the open country round about. 

At three o’clock Mr. John Harwood, who had approach- 
ed the meeting place in an opposite direction, coming 
from Muswell Hill, came along the lane that, hidden by 
a high hedge, leads to the stile at right angles from the 
Wood-lane path. 

A person taking this direction would be quite unseen 
by any one coming across the wood until the stile was 
reached. 

John Harwood came along quietly and cautiously till 
near the stile, when, by peering through the hedge at a 
little gap, he was able to see that a young lady was there, 
and he knew at once that Belle Mortimer had kept her 
appointment. 

Then he came on rapidly and made Belle utter a stifled 
little cry by popping up suddenly in front of her. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said; “I hope I didn’t 
frighten you. So you are Belle, my daughter, that I 
have not seen all these years.” 

For a moment Belle could say nothing. The sudden 
appearance of her father had startled her, and when she 
recovered from her confusion she was trembling violent- 
ly. She had dreaded this meeting, and now it had come 
she was distressed by it. Her father’s appearance shock- 
ed her. A handsome man he had undoubtedly been, 
but the face was marked and seared, first by dissipation 
and then by want. It was terrible to look upon such a 
wreck, and to know that the outcast before her was her 
own father. With Ned it had been different. He was 
still young, and his face had lost none of its refinement. 
He looked like a gentleman dressed in old clothes, that 
was all ; but her father looked like what he was, a dis- 
sipated, degraded, hopeless vagabond. 

“I am very sorry to see you look so — ^look so — ill,” 
she stammered, it was the only word she could think of 
that wouldn’t be humiliating. “ I have done as you told 
me, and brought you this.” 


TALES OF TO-OAY. 


201 


Belle put her hand in her pocket and drew out a little 
packet. 

“You will find the fifty pounds I promised you in 
notes inside it. Please take it and let me go.” 

John Harwood seized the packet eagerly. Directly it 
was in his hand she turned, and without waiting for a 
word, fled like a frightened deer. 

During the short interview Belle had been on one side 
of the stile, and her father on the other, so that she was 
gone before he could stop her. 

But he didn’t want her to go like that. He had some- 
thing else to say. Climbing quickly over the stile, he 
called after her. 

But Belle never turned, she sped on till she was in 
Wood-lane, and then she walked rapidly towards her 
home. She did not want to witness the meeting between 
her father and her mother. 

As John Harwood came forward through the wood, he 
heard a light footstep behind him. 

He turned and found himself face to face with a lady. 

As he turned she uttered a cry of astonishment. Then, 
hardly knowing what she did, she shouted for help, — 
and seized the man to detain him. 

“You will, will you } ” he cried, “then take that.” 

With all his force he brought down his clenched fist 
full upon the woman’s upturned face. With a deep groan 
she tottered and fell to the ground. Then John Harwood 
took to his heels, and climbing the stile again, made his 
way along by the hedges until he found a deep spot over- 
grown with bush and jDriar, and there he flung himself 
down to wait until it was dark, in order that he might get 
away unobserved, under cover of the night, in case a hue 
and cry should be raised. 

All this time Ned Darvell lay and slept, but his sleep 
was disturbed. It was a kind of nightmare, and in his 
nightmare he was struggling with a man who kept crying 
“Help, help!” When he awoke it seemed to him that 
he had really heard the cry, but all was still. He felt 
stiff and cold from lying on the hard ground, so he rose 
and stamped his feet to warm himself. 

As he came down through the woods to the path, he 
made his way towards the stile. As he came near it he 
saw something lying glittering on the ground. He 


202 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


picked it up. It was a gold bracelet. Some one had 
been there while he was asleep — a lady. Could it be 
Belle.? He never remembered to have seen her wear 
the bracelet, but he thought it was like one he had seen 
on Mrs. Mortimer’s wrist. He picked it up and put it in 
his pocket, thinking perhaps he had better take it to a 
police station and let them advertise it. 

He turned from the stile and made his way along the 
path towards Wood-lane. As he did so he saw a few 
people standing together, and a policeman’s helmet 
among them. Since he had come to his present position 
of seediness, Darvell had instinctively shrunk from 
crowds. 

Instead of passing the people he turned up sharp into 
the wood, and made his way out of sight to the exit. 

But the crashing of the branches as he pushed them 
aside attracted attention, and two men left the crowd and 
made for him. 

To his utter astonishment Ned suddenly felt himself 
seized roughly by the collar. 

“ What do you want — what do you want.? ” he cried. 

“You know what we want,” said a policeman, who 
had come up in a hurry, followed by half-a-dozen men 
and lads. “ Hold him tight, you men, while I search him.” 

The policeman thrust his hand into Ned’s pockets. 
The first thing he drew out was the gold bracelet. 

“ I thought so,” he said. “ Now, my man, you’ll come 
along with me. You chaps keep hold of the other arm 
till I meet one of my mates. The sergeant will have to 
stop by the lady till the doctor cornes, but I’m afraid she’s 
killed.” 

“Lady! ’’cried Ned. “A lady killed in the wood! 
For God’s sake, man, tell me what it all means ! ” 

“You’ll know soon enough,” replied the policeman. 
And he did, for half an hour afterwards at the police sta- 
tion Ned found himself charged with having attempted 
to murder a lady in Highgate Woods, in order to rob her 
of her gold bracelet. 

And all over the neighborhood, when the event became 
known that evening, the conversation turned upon the 
danger of ladies going anywhere away from the main 
thoroughfare, when so many tramps were about. 

When Edward Darvell was brought the next day before 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


203 


the magistrates he was fully prepared to explain how he 
became possessed of the bracelet, and he felt pretty easy 
in his mind ; as, of course, when the lady who had been 
injured recovered, she would be able to state that he had 
not been her assailant, and would, of course, acquit him 
of having robbed her. 

He had given a false name at the police-station, not 
wishing all the world to know he was wandering about in 
such a condition as to be described as a tramp. 

But when, to his utter amazement, he listened to the 
evidence as given by the police-constable, and found that 
the lady who had not yet recovered consciousness was no 
other than Mrs. Mortimer, and that he was to be remand- 
ed until she was able to appear and give evidence, he 
hardly knew what to do for the best. He at once jumped 
to the conclusion that what had befallen Mrs. Mortimer 
was due to her having met her husband. But just before 
he was ordered to be taken away, it occurred to the mag- 
istrate that it would be as well, if the prisoner was to be 
connected with the crime, to prove that the bracelet found 
upon him was the property of the injured lady ; and so 
the lady’s daughter, who was not in attendance, was sent 
for to identify the bracelet. 

When Belle was placed in the witness-box and saw 
who the prisoner was, she uttered a cry of astonishment. 

“You know the prisoner.? ” .said the magistrate. 

“ Oh, yes,” she said, “but there is some mistake, I am 
sure. Mr. Darvell had nothing to do with this attack 
upon my mother.” 

“Darvell ! ” exclaimed the magistrate ; “that is not the 
name the prisoner is charged in.” 

“ It’s the one the prisoner gave, your worship,” said 
the Inspector. 

Belle looked at Ned, and Ned at Belle — the same 
thought was in the mind of both. How much could either 
say without publishing the family secret to the world .? 

“Is your name Darvell.?” said the magistrate, turning 
to the prisoner. 

“ Yes, your worship, it is. I didn’t care to give it in 
connection with this charge, which I presumed would be 
disposed of to-day by the lady appearing and proving 
that we never met yesterday afternoon at all.” 

‘'You know this person. Miss Mortimer,” said the mag- 


204 


tal:es of ro-i)Ay. 


istrate, ‘‘perhaps you can tell us something about him.” 

“I can only tell you that he is a gentleman and a friend 
of my family, and quite incapable of such an action.” 

“ But your mother is found lying on the ground insen- 
sible from a blow. There are signs of a severe struggle, 
and this man is seen endeavoring to escape unseen 
through the wood. When arrested this bracelet (holding 
it up) is found upon him. Do you recognize it ? ” 

“Oh, yes ! it is my mother’s. She wore yesterday.” 

“ Humph ! ” said the magistrate ; “ then if the prisoner’s 
account is correct he picked it up some distance from where 
the struggle took place. How did it get there.? ” 

‘ ‘ I saw it lying on the ground, your worship, and I 
picked it up.” 

The magistrate held a whispered conference with the 
Inspector who had charge of the case, and then he an- 
nounced that looking at all the circumstances he thought 
the best thing would be to remand the prisoner until the 
lady who had been attacked could give her version of the 
affair. 

So Ned Darvell was led away and poor Belle went 
home more terrified than ever. Her mother was seriously 
ill — the blow had rendered her completely unconscious, 
and she was only slowly coming to her senses ; and Ned, 
her sweetheart, was a prisoner charged with the offence. 

She knew as well as if she had seen the affair what had 
happened. Her father and mother had met. There had 
been high words and her mother had been struck. The 
bracelet had probably fallen from her mother’s arm in 
going through the wood. How he’d come to be in the 
wood at the time and to have seen nothing of the struggle, 
was of course a mystery which he alone could explain. 

Belle might have put a different complexion on the 
affair in court, but she dreaded to make the scandal public 
property. She knew that it would be a terrible blow to her 
mother to have the circumstances known, and she had 
read in Ned’s quick glance when they met in the Court 
that he too wished her to keep silence. 

Whichever way the poor girl looked at it she felt that 
it was a terribly awkward business — awkward for them 
all — and she wondered how it would all end. 

It was two or three days after the first examination be- 
fore the magistrate, before Mrs. Mortimer was sufficiently 


TALES OF TO-^DAY. 


205 

recovered to converse. As soon as she was allowed to 
talk she called Belle to her bedside. 

“ Belle, my dear/' she said, “did that man who met 
you in the wood say that he was your father or that he 
came from your father ? " 

“ He said that he was my father." 

“He is not. Belle ; our secret is in the possession of 
some one who is using it for his own purpose. That man 
I never saw before. " 

“ He is not my father.? " exclaimed Belle, with a little 
cry of relief. “Oh, I am glad of that. But, mamma, 
you must tell me all that happened ; you don't know how 
important it is." 

“ I was late in getting to the wood that afternoon ; I 
was so afraid of being seen that I came a roundabout 
way under cover of the trees. When I reached the stile 
you were just running away, and the man you had been 
talking to I could not see, as he had followed you and his 
back was towards me. I went after him, and he heard 
my footsteps and turned, and then I saw that he was a 
stranger to me. Instantly the truth flashed upon me. 
This man had in some way discovered our secret and was 
trading on it. I understood why he wished to avoid see- 
ing me. I knew at once that he had only been working 
upon you to get this money out of you and that it was a 
fraud, and on the impulse of the moment I seized him and 
called for help. Then he raised his fist and struck me 
down, and then I knew no more." 

“ JMamma, do you know who is charged with the crime ? " 

“Charged with the crime ! Who can be ? " 

“Ned! " 

“Mr. Darvell.?" 

“ Yes, mamma, he is in custody for it. It seems he 
was in the wood that afternoon and picked up your 
bra’celet, which you must have dropped. He was ar- 
rested and charged with having attacked you in order to 
rob you of that. " 

‘ ‘ Edward Darvell was in the wood at the time ? What 
could he be there for?" 

“Can't you guess, mamma I Having been this man's 
messenger once and knowing that he was trying to get 
money from me, Ned thought he might try again, and I 
suppose he went there to see if anything happened." 


2o6 


TALES OF TO-DAT. 


Yes,” said Mrs. Mortimer, slowly, ‘‘I suppose thj?t 
must have been it. But it was absurd to charge hirti 
with the deed. He might have been in the wood but I 
never saw him. ” 

You must let that be known at once, mamma.” 

Of course I shall do so, my dear, but we must be care- 
ful what we say. It isn’t worth while to have it pub- 
lished all over the country that you were there to meet 
a tramp whom you believed to be your father, and whom 
I believed to be my husband.” 

Mrs. Mortimer mended rapidly, and although still 
weak was able in a few days to attend at the police-cotirt, 
where her evidence that Edward Darvell was not the 
man who had attacked her was of course accepted by the 
magistrate, who discharged the prisoner, remarking at 
the same time that the police were perfectly justified in 
arresting him under all the circumstances of the case. 

When Ned was liberated he found himself a celebrity. 
The report of the case had attracted general attention. 
The recognition of the seedy-looking individual in the 
dock as the friend of the family by Miss Mortimer, and 
the curious piece of circumstantial evidence of the brace- 
let, had been seized upon by the newspapers as attractive 
matter to workup for their readers. The “Gentleman 
Tramp ” was the headline in one of the half-penny even- 
ing sheets, and under this heading the writer professed 
to give a full, true, and particular account of the life and 
career of the hero of “The Highgate Wood Mystery.” 

The mystery was supposed to come in as the motive 
of the attack on Mrs. Mortimer. She had not been robbed, 
as according to her own evidence the bracelet might have 
dropped off at the stile. As the real culprit was not pur- 
sued or seen by any one he was hardly likely, had he 
stolen the bracelet after leaving his victim senseless, to 
have thrown it away or to have carried it so carelessly *as 
to lose it. 

The evening newspaper which went to the trouble of 
finding out all about Edward Darvell, his birth, parentage, 
etc., also discovered that he had been locked up at Bow 
Street, and that he had passed a few days in the casual 
ward, and it went on to hint that the clue to the “ Mys- 
terious attack on a lady ” would be found in the family 
history of the parties concerned. 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


207 


A copy of the newspaper containing an account of the 
case came into old Mr. Darvell’s hands, and made him 
furious. He at once wrote a letter, which he took care 
should reach his son, informing him that if he was inno- 
cent he had only himself to blame for sinking to a posi- 
tion which would allow such a charge to be made against 
him, and he informed him that from that date he ceased 
to acknowledge him, and considered him unworthy to 
bear his name — certainly unfit to succeed him in the 
property or to have the squandering of the family for- 
tune. 

Ned went down at once to see his father, and took a 
letter from Mrs. Mortimer in which she assured the angry 
father that her assailant was not his son. 

But Mr. Darvell, blinded by passion, refused to listen 
to any explanation. He had read the case, and said it 
was a disgraceful one for a Darvell to be mixed up in. 
He would only reconsider his decision when the real cul- 
prit had been convicted of the offence and his son’s char- 
acter cleared before the whole world. 

This threat, which was practically one of disinheritance, 
was the climax of Ned s misfortunes, and he hurried back 
to town and besought Mrs. Mortimer to place him in pos- 
session of the facts which would enable him to convince 
the world of his innocence. There was but one way : to 
discover John Harwood, and to have him arrested and 
prosecuted ; but to do this Mrs. Mortimer still hesitated, 
until she could know how far her husband was concerned 
in the scheme for obtaining the money of his daughter. 
She didn’t care to wash the family dirty linen in court 
again. 

All she could do then to assist Ned was to make him 
acquainted with the whole facts concerning her marriage 
and separation. 

She had married a wealthy man, a Mr. Glendenning, 
when a girl of eighteen. Before she was two and twenty 
her first husband died, leaving her a good income for life 
but directing that the bulk of his property should pass to 
his brother. 

Mrs. Glendenning, however, was supposed to have in- 
herited her husband’s wealth, and to be immensely rich. 
Young, amiable, and supposed to be wealthy, she was 
soou syrrpunded with suitors. Unfortunately the man to 


2o8 


TALES OE TO-DAY. 


whom she eventually yielded her hand was a good-look- 
ing brilliant adventurer, generally known as “Jack Mor- 
timer ” on the turf and at the clubs, and as “Adonis Mor- 
timer among the ladies. 

Nobody knew where he came from or what he was. 
He had no profession, but was to be seen everywhere, 
and it was privately believed that he was waiting to 
make a good match. Mrs. Glendenning as soon as he 
commenced to pay her marked attention, gradually 
yielded to the undoubted fascination which the man pos- 
sessed, and two years after the death of her first husband 
she entered the bonds of matrimony for the second time. 

The marriage was an unhappy one from the first. Jack 
Mortimer, accustomed to a free and easy life, declined to 
give up his old habits. He still remained at his clubs till 
two and three in the morning, he still went to the princi- 
pal race meetings round the country, and in the summer 
was away for weeks together without even troubling to 
let his wife have his address. 

When he did write home it was for money. From the 
commencement of his married life he had drawn liberally 
upon his wife’s income for his own private expenses, and 
he was recklessly extravagant. From time to time ru- 
mors reached Mrs. Mortimer of her husband’s “goings 
on, ” which were not calculated to make her easier in her 
mind, and at last, acting under the advice of her friends, 
she caused inquiries to be made, which resulted in pro- 
ceedings in the Divorce Court. 

It was found that Mr. Mortimer was in the habit of 
travelling about the country with a lady who had super- 
intended his domestic arrangements before his marriage, 
and that she was still passing as his wife while he was 
away from home in places where he was not generally 
known. On finding out that his wife had been having 
him watched Mr. Mortimer was furious, and he behaved 
in a manner which enabled the necessary plea of cruelty 
to be fully established. 

The result of the trial was to set Mrs. Mortimer free 
and to give her the custody of the only child of the mar- 
riage, Belle ; the Court considering the father’s conduct 
and mode of life sufficiently bad to refuse him any control 
.at all over the child's future. 

Jack jVIprtimer, after fhe trial was over, went abroad 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


209 

with the lady who had caused all the trouble, and it was 
soon reported that he had gone utterly to the bad. 

For years his wife heard nothing of him ; but one day 
about two years before the events referred to at the com- 
mencement of this narrative she received a letter from him 
stating that he was in a state of complete destitution, and 
asking her for £100 to enable him to leave the country 
and go to America. The letter was dated from a common 
lodging house at the East End. Mrs. Mortimer replied 
by referring him to her solicitors and stating that if he 
called upon them he should receive the sum under certain 
conditions. The conditions were that he was to sign an 
undertaking pledging himself to make no further applica- 
tion, and in no way to molest her or her daughter. In 
order to make the document more efficacious she agreed 
so long as he respected its clauses to send five pounds 
every quarter to any address he might forward to the 
solicitors. 

It was a generous offer, but it did not meet with its re- 
ward. Six months after, Mrs. Mortimer received another 
letter demanding a further sum of money, and threatening 
to apply to Belle and tell her the whole story unless the 
request was complied with. 

The reply to that was a point blank refusal, the stopping 
of the allowance, and an intimation that at the first attempt 
of Mr. Mortimer to annoy Belle the matter would be 
placed in the hands of the police. 

The reply seemed to have had the desired effect, for 
Mrs. Mortimer heard no more of her divorced husband 
and had begun to breathe freely again, when something 
in Belle’s manner led her to believe that her father had 
opened communications with her. What happened in 
consequence of this discovery the reader already knows. 

As soon as Mrs. Mortimer had explained to Darvell the 
circumstances which had preceded the attempt to prey 
upon Belle, he began to think the whole affair out, in 
order, if possible, to disentangle the real Jack Mortimer 
from the false one. 

Mrs. Mortimer vouched for the fact that the original ap- 
plicant to her was Mortimer himself. The letter she re- 
ceived was in his handwriting, and he had gone to her 
lawyer’s, who had recognized him. 

The second letter, which broke the terms of the under- 


210 


TALES OF TO-DA Y, 


taking, was also in Mortimer’s writing, but after that 
there was no proof that he was in any way connected 
with the attempts on Belle. Belle had naturally destroyed 
the letters which had been given to her, but on being 
shown her father’s handwriting she said she was sure 
her letters were writtendn a different hand. 

The enigma which had to be solved now was at what 
period of these transactions the real Mortimer left off, and 
the false one, the man who called himself John Harwood, 
commenced. 

Such was the state of affairs when one evening Ned, 
who had at last obtained, through the interest of a former 
friend, a small appointment in the office of a public com- 
pany, caught sight of a figure which seemed familiar. It 
was near London Bridge and the traffic was heavy, it 
being the time when the great crowd of city toilers pour 
over the bridge to the south side of the metropolis. 

The man, a ragged, dilapidated-looking fellow, was 
making for the bridge, slouching along with his eyes on 
the ground and his hands in his pockets, and his gait sug- 
gested that he was not quite sober. 

Quickening his pace Ned came near enough to the man 
to catch sight of his face. 

His first idea had been a correct one. The man was 
John Harwood. 

Fearful of being recognized by the scoundrel, whose 
movements he wished to observe, Ned dropped back and 
followed at a respectful distance, taking care to let three 
or four pedestrians keep between him and his “casual ” 
acquaintance. 

John Harwood slouched on until he came to Southwark 
Bridge road, when Ned, still cautiously following, he 
turned up a side street and slouched on until he came to 
a house which had a board over the front door, announc- 
ing, in accordance with the Act of Parliament, that it was 
a Registered Lodging House. 

John Harwood pushed the swing-door open and en- 
tered, and then Ned halted to consider what he had 
better do. 

The missing link between Mrs. Mortimer and her hus- 
band was found, but it was a link which required to be 
handled gently, or it might snap. To have the man 
arrested there and then for the Highgate affair would do 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


211 

no good. What was wanted of him was a confession as 
to his dealings with Mortimer, and a statement as to when 
he had last seen that gentleman. 

If Ned could only pass the night in that house without 
being recognized he might find out something. There 
was at least the chance of gleaning a little information. 

Taking a note of the name of the street and the number 
of the house he returned to his lodgings. On the way he 
went into an old clothes shop and secured a rough pilot 
jacket, a pair of corduroys, and a coarse check shirt. 
With these and an old fur cap he was able to make himself 
appear presentable at a common lodging house. Still, he 
was afraid of being recognized by Harwood. So he spent 
half an hour in front of his looking-glass endeavoring to 
alter his appearance as much as possible. 

To grime his face was an easily managed task in Lon- 
don lodgings, and further to conceal his identity he sacri- 
ficed his mustache. By pulling the cap close down over 
his eyes he found that he had very little resemblance, 
when all his arrangements were complete, to the Edward 
Darvell whom Harwood had met that memorable night 
in St. Mary’s casual ward. 

It was Ned’s first attempt at playing the amateur detec- 
tive, and he felt a little nervous, but his experience in the 
days when he had been down at heel stood him in good 
stead, and he slouched into the lodging house after the 
manner of a genuine common lodger. 

The deputy came forward at once, received the neces- 
sary fourpence, and then Ned, throwing himself down on 
a bench at the back of the common kitchen, as far from 
the fire as possible, smoked away at his pipe, and took 
observations from under the peak of his greasy old cap. 

As luck would have it John Harwood was in the room. 
He was on a form in front of the fire, and had been 
making himself objectionable, for one of his neighbors 
was still swearing at him. 

Harwood returned the compliment, and presently rose, 
and saying he was going to bed and the company might 
go somewhere else where it would probably be warm, he 
slouched out of the room and stumbled up the stairs, 
muttering to himself and swearing as he went. 

Then Ned came forward and took his vacant place by 
the fire. 


212 


TALKS OF TO-DAY. 


“ A nice agreeable sort of a cove that/' he said. 

“Yes, he is," was the reply; “he’s bad enough when 
he’s sober, but he’s wus when he’s drunk.” 

“ Is he a reg’lar here.? ’’ said Ned. 

“ He used to be a year or more ago. Then he left, and 
we was all glad to be shut of him ; but he come back 
about a fortnight ago." 

“ What’s his name .? ’’ 

“I don’t know what his real name is, but he was al- 
ways knowed as “Flash Jack." He was a gentleman 
once, you know." 

“Oh.?" 

“Yes, he’s one of the swells as we gets in these places 
sometimes. Fellows as has had their chance and chucked 
it away. Bless you we has captings in the army and 
clergymen and all that sort in these here lodging-houses. 
Why, one night in a ’ousel was at, a man recognized the 
beak as had tried him once in the country, and Fm hanged 
if he didn’t give him a copper next day for to get his 
breakfast, cos the poor beak looked so blessed hungry, 
and said he hadn’t got a mag to fly with. That was a 
rum go, wasn’t it .? " 

“ It was a rum go," said Ned. “Ah, it s wus for swells 
like them to come down than for us fellows as only comes 
to this through gettin’ out o’ work. So that chap as you call 
“ Flash Jack ” was a gentleman once, was he .? " 

“ Yes, the deputy here knows most about him ; but I 
knows a good bit, because I’ve used this ’ouse for years, 
and I lived here when Flash Jack and a pal o’ his 
as ’ud been a swell too, fust come to the place. You 
remember ’em, don’t you, Bill .? " said the man, turning to 
a gentleman who looked like a hawker, and who was play- 
ing cards with another gentleman, apparently of the same 
profession, in the corner. 

Yes, rather ! But the other chap was a rea/er gentle- 
man than Flash Jack." 

What was his name .? ” 

“ Lord knows what his real name was. These sort of 
chaps don’t go by their real names when they come to 
fourpenny beds, but Flash Jack alius called him Jay Hem-. 
I suppose them was his initials." 

“J.M.," thought Ned to himself. “I wonder if that 
was Jack Mortimer.” 


TALES OF TCh-BAY. 


213 

Poor old Jay Hem, ” broke in the hawker, “ he had 
a bit o’ luck, but it didn’t do him much good.” 

“ Did he come into a fortune ? ” asked Ned. 

“ He come into a tidy bit o’ money, I heard. At least 
1 know he did, ’cos he and Flash Jack left here, and was 
seen about London blind drunk for nearly a month. 
And then Jay Hem disappeared, and Jack hadn’t got a 
brown, and took to the casual wards, I’ve heard. It was 
only by haccident, as I heard afterwards what had become 
of his pal.” 

“ Got locked up, I suppose ? ” said Ned. 

“No, he got run over by a cab, and was took to the 
osspital, and they couldn’t put him right, and so he was 
took to the workhouse infirmary, ’cos they said he’d 
never be able to get about anymore, through a hinjury to 
his spine.” 

“ What infirmary was it .? ” 

“ St. Olave’s — the one as belongs to this parish.” 

The conversation was continued, but Ned took no 
further part in it. He was wondering if J. M., Jack 
Harwood’s pal, was the John Mortimer whose where- 
abouts he was so anxious to discover. 

Presently he took his candle and went upstairs to bed, 
and in the morning, as soon as it was light, he dressed 
himself, and returned to his apartments. 

His first visit was to the office, whence, having obtained 
leave of absence for the day, he went off post haste to 
Highgate. 

His story was soon told, and then Mrs. Mortimer asked 
him what he thought they had better do. 

“ Go to St. Olave’s Infirmary at once,” said Ned. “ It 
is quite possible that J. M. is your husband, but he may 
not have been received there as John Mortimer. It is 
more than probable that he would have assumed a false 
name during the years he has been living this life of 
degradation. If I were to see this J. M., I couldn’t tell if 
he were your husband or not, as I have never seen him. 
You would know him, and therefore I think it will be 
better for you to come with me.” 

Mrs. Mortimer hesitated. The task was not a pleasant 
one, but at last she overcame her scruples and con- 
sented. 

The Master of St. Olave’s Workhouse was exceedingly 


214 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


courteous. As soon as his visitors had stated their busi- 
ness, he looked over the books and found that the case of 
a man who had been run over was transferred from the 
hospital to the infirmary some months previously, and 
that the man was received in the name of John Morton. 

“John Morton! ” said Ned; “it may not be our man 
after all. Still, we had better see him. ” 

Conducted by the Master, Ned and Mrs. Mortimer made 
their way to the infirmary w^ard. 

The Master stopped at a bed in the corner. The occu- 
pant had his face turned to the wall. 

“Well, Morton, how are you to-day ” said the Master, 
in a kindly voice. 

The man turned his head slowly. As he did so Mrs. 
Mortimer uttered a little cry and clutched Ned’s arm. 

The man’s eyes opened wildly, as if he had seen a 
startling vision. Then the blood left his face and he 
turned deadly pale. 

Husband and wife had met. 

The man who had been John Harwood’s “pal,” and 
who had been brought to the infirmary, was the missing 
John Mortimer — Belle’s father. 

For the first moment or so Mrs. Mortimer lost her self- 
possession. But she recovered it speedily, and then, ap- 
proaching the bedside, she took her husband’s hand kind- 
ly, and said, “I’m sorry to hear you have been so ill. 
Are you better now ? ” 

“I’m better in myself, Mary,” he said, “but I shall 
never get about again ; but I shall have time to repent of 
my sins before I die. That’s a mercy at any rate.” 

“Yes,” said his wife, gently, “that is a mercy. It 
doesn’t hurt you to talk ? ” 

“ Oh no I I’m glad to see you, and to be able to talk a 
little too. I’ve had plenty of time to lie here and think, 
and there are many things that I should like say to you 
now you are here. I’m not the man I was, Mary. 
I’ve been face to face with death, and that gave me a 
sharp clear view of my past life. I hope that for all the 
the wrong I did you you’ll forgive me. I’ve been pun- 
ished for it, God knows ; not that I didn’t deserve it, 
don’t think that I mean that. I know I did ; but I think 
that I shall be able to lie here more comfortably and wait 
for the end if I know you forgive me. ’ 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


215 

‘‘I do forgive you. I had forgiven you, and I had 
hoped that you had been worthy my forgiveness until — 
until — 

Until I tried to get that money out of you, eh ? Well, 
a lot of good it did me. It only brought me to this.” 

It is about that I want to talk to you, John. Will 
you answer my questions truthfully ? ” 

•‘Yes ; its the least I can do.” 

“After you tried the second time to get money from me 
and I refused, did you set a man named John Harwood 
on to try and get money from Belle?” 

A look of genuine astonishment passed over the invalid’s 
face. 

“Do you mean to say that Harwood applied in my 
name to Belle for money? ” 

“Yes.” 

“The infernal scoundrel,” cried the sick man. 

“ How did he know about Belle and myself? How 
did he know your history ? ” 

“ Don’t you know who he is?” 

“No.” 

“He is the brother of the woman who caused all the 
mischief between us, Mary. After she died Jack and I 
lived together, and he made me worse than ever. He’d 
drunk himself to poverty, and sponged on me long before, 
but he was a sharp fellow, and we lived on our wits 
together. I knew he was a scoundrel, but I didn’t think 
he’d sell me.” 

It was clear as noonday now to Mrs. Mortimer how 
Harwood knew the story of her life, and how he had been 
enabled, with Mortimer out of the way, to trade upon his 
knowledge. 

Leaving the Infirmary with a promise to her husband 
that she would come and see him again, Mrs. Mortimer 
went home after arranging with Ned what was to be done. 
John Harwood could be charged now, for John Mortimer 
was in no way involved ’in the circumstances which led 
to the crime. The difficulty was to devise a way in which 
he could be charged without bringing out the story that 
Mrs. Mortimer was particularly anxious should not be re- 
published to the world. She was a woman of the world, 
and knew that the father’s degradation would attach a 


2i6 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


stigma to the daughter — that people would shrug their 
shoulders and say all manner of unpleasant things, and 
that Ned himself would have to bear them even after she 
was his wife. 

Ned knew his own father well enough to know that 
nothing but the public trial of the real culprit would sat- 
isfy him as removing the suspicion of the crime from his 
son. John Harwood must be publicly charged as the 
author of the “Highgate Mystery.” 

Ned went at once to the lodging-house in which Har- 
wood had spent his previous evening. He had gone out 
saying he should come back again that night. Ned 
waited until his man came. He met him turning down 
the street — met him face to face. Harwood started back, 
and would have run, but Ned had him by the arm and 
held him. 

“ You’d better listen to me,” he said. “ If you don’t I 
shall call a policeman and give you in charge at once.” 

Then he rapidly presented Mr. Harwood with a view 
of the situation. If he stood his trial without bringing 
his connection with Mortimer into it Ned promised that 
everything should be made as favorable as possible for 
him, that no word should be said about the money, and 
that as soon as he had served his sentence funds should 
be given him to enable him to leave the country. 

It was Hobson’s choice, and Harwood was forced to 
consent. He knew that Darvell would keep his word if 
he held his tongue about Belle’s father. It was to his 
interest, and the interest of the family, to do so. He was 
arrested and pleaded guilty, and Mrs. Mortimer stating 
that she had seized him to detain him believing he was 
about to rob her, and strongly pleading to the Court to 
take a lenient view of the assault, which was committed 
in a moment of rage, a sentence of six months’ imprison- 
ment was passed. 

Then Ned went down and told his father the whole 
story, and had the satisfaction of convincing the old gen- 
tleman that he had been very badly used. The result in 
the end was satisfactory to all parties, and when Belle 
Mortimer became Mrs. Edward Darvell the old gentle- 
man came down very handsomely in the way of money. 

John Mortimer was removed from the infirmary to a 
little cottage taken for him by his wife, and here skilfully 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


217 


nursed, and lacking for nothing he quietly passed away, 
having made his peace with God and with those whom he 
had injured in the past by his reckless and evil behavior. 

Ned Darvell rarely refers to the days when he was “a 
gentleman tramp,” but often when he muses on the past 
he thinks of the strange adventures which befell him 
through going into the casual ward, and he wonders what 
part John Harwood might have played in his married life 
had he not been instrumental in freeing Belle from the 
toils which her “unhappy father,” as the impostor called 
himself, was endeavoring to spread around her. 

A young wife with a disreputable parent, whose exist- 
ence she is anxious to conceal from her husband, does 
not always come happily out of the ordeal. 


X. 

THE LOST BRIDE. 

“ My dear, this is Calais — we are just in. My dear, 
don’t you hear me — are you ill ? Why don’t you open 
the door } ” 

Mr. Tobias Jones rapped and rapped again at the door 
of the private cabin which he had secured for his newly 
married wife on the Calais night boat, but still he received 
no answer. 

He fancied the young lady might have fallen asleep, so 
he banged the door harder, and this time to his intense 
astonishment it flew open, showing that it was not fast- 
ened, and behold the cabin was perfectly empty. 

“ Dear me ! ” exclaimed Mr. Jones, who was past sixty 
and wore gold glasses, and was fussy with the fussiness 
of age, “ dear me, that is very extraordinary now. Leo- 
nora must have felt stuffy in the cabin and gone out on 
deck. ” 

The old gentleman ran about the slippery deck as well 
as he could under the circumstances — the ship was rolling 
heavily — and he peered into the faces of all the female 
passengers, but nowhere could he discover his lost 
Leonora, his beauteous and blushing bride. 

Then Tobias became anxious. It was his wedding 


2i8 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


night. At noon that very day he had been united in the 
bonds of holy matrimony to Leonora Dalrymple, aged 
22, spinster, father dead (see certificate), by the Registrar 
of the Parish of Bloomsbury, at his (the Registrar’s) office, 
in the presence of two clerks belonging to the same 
office, who received five shillings each for their services. 

It was not a romantic or a dignified ceremony, but it 
suited Tobias, and the fair Leonora had not in the slight- 
est way objected. Mr. Jones had been a widower for ten 
years, he had grown-up sons, and he was highly respected 
in chapel circles at Clapham, and when he fell madly in 
love with a beautiful young woman, whom he met for 
the first time reading one of Ouida’s novels on a seat in 
Kensington Gardens, and who artlessly informed him 
that such was her custom always of an afternoon, he 
didn’t like to confess the soft impeachment even to him- 
self ; and as the acquaintance ripened and the charming 
creature in the third afternoon confided to Tobias that she 
was an orphan of good family, her papa having been an 
officer in the army and her mamma a clergyman’s daugh- 
ter, and that she lived with an aunt of independent means 
in St. Mary Abbott’s Terrace, what more natural than 
that one day when it rained Mr. Jones should escort her 
as far as the door with his umbrella. 

And the next day it was decidedly not unnatural that 
he should call and inquire after Miss Dairy mple’s health, 
fearing lest she might have caught cold through being ex- 
posed to the inclemency of the elements. 

He was leaving his card with the servant when Leonora 
herself came tripping downstairs and insisted that he 
should come into the drawing-room and see aunt. Aunt 
— a venerable and severe-looking duenna — received her 
niece’s admirer frigidly at first, but gradually unbent, and 
from that day Tobias was a constant visitor, and became 
at last so desperately enamoured that he took the fatal 
plunge and tremblingly asked Miss Leonora if she would 
overlook his age in consideration of his wealth and his 
sincere affection for her, and become his wife. 

Leonora broke from Tobias with a pretty blush as he 
tried to seize her hand, and tremulously whispered that 
he must ask “Auntie.” 

Auntie was more business-like. She explained that her 
niece’s beauty and birth and breeding entitled her to look 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


219 

forward to a first-class position as a wife. What were 
Mr. Jones’s circumstances ? Mr. Jones explained that he 
was a business man, but that his sons took all the worry- 
off his shoulders. He had plenty of money, and would 
make a good settlement and a good husband. Auntie 
professed herself satisfied, and allowed the lovers to be- 
come engaged on the understanding that as she was com- 
pelled to leave London shortly for her usual autumn visit 
to Carlsbad, the marriage should take place within a 
month, and as there had recently been a death in the 
family, that it should be quite private. 

Tobias readily consented, and when he explained to 
Leonora that he didn’t want his family to know anything 
about it till it was over, he was delighted to find that the 
dear girl was quite agreable to a private marriage by 
licence before the superintendent registrar. 

By living fifteen days at an hotel in Bloomsbury Mr. 
Jones qualified for that parish — a parish in which he was 
not likely to be known — and on the appointed day the 
ceremony took place. Auntie was not present, as, owing 
to an unexpected circumstance, she had to leave that 
very morning for Carlsbad. 

It is needless to say that the old gentleman had be- 
haved gallantly in the matter of presents. To atone for 
the secrecy of the proceedings, he had loaded his young 
bride with all that is supposed to appeal to a young and 
pretty woman’s heart. 

He had, even on the eve of the wedding, taken his 
first wife’s jewels from the bank and presented her with a 
beautiful diamond necklace, a costly sapphire and diamond 
ring, and a set of diamond stars for the hair, giving her 
at the same time a beautiful jewel case and a dressing 
bag with her initials on, in which to place her valuables, 
and so have them in her own custody while travelling. 

“They are very beautiful,, dear,” said Leonora, and so 
they were. Tobias rather proudly let out that his dear 
little sweetheart was the happy possessor of quite £5,000 
worth of jewelry all told. 

She kissed him and said he was a “pet,” and she 
should never be able to love him enough, and the next 
day when they left the registry office, both radiant with 
smiles, and drove to an hotel for luncheon, Leonora had 
all her presents in her dressing bag. 


220 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


They left by the evening' mail, at the bride’s desire, for 
Paris ; and the poor little bride, upset by the roughness 
of the sea, begged Tobias to leave her alone for awhile in 
the private deck cabin. “ I’m going to be ill, dear,” she 
said, ‘ ‘ and I don’t want you to see me ill ; it isn’t ro- 
mantic. ” 

Tobias also felt ill, and he didn’t think he should appear 
at his best to his young bride under the circumstances, so 
he left his darling and went and leant over the side of the 
vessel and contemplated the ocean. 

But as the lights of Calais came in sight he went to see 
how his young wife was getting on, and found the cabin 
empty. 

\\Ten he failed to find her on deck ; when he failed to 
find her below ; when he failed to find her among the 
crowd on the landing stage, or in the buffet, his heart 
sank down within him. How could she have missed 
him — where could she be ? 

There were plenty of ladies, young and old, among 
the passengers, but no Leonora. Possibly she had come 
up from below as the boat got alongside, and, missing 
him, had gone to the hotel in Calais where she knew rooms 
had been reserved, as they had determined to break the 
journey there. 

He went to the hotel, but nothing had been seen there 
of a young English lady. 

When he retured to the station the rest of the passengers 
had all gone on by the Paris or the Brussels express, and 
at last, after vainly interviewing all the officials at the 
station and on the boat, Tobias returned broken-hearted to 
what should have been the nuptial chamber, and passed 
the night a prey to grief and terror at the mysterious dis- 
appearance of his newly-made bride — and her dressing 
bag. 

That was a peculiar feature of the mystery. Leonora 
couldn’t have dropped overboard ; if she had, she would 
have left her dressing bag behind her. Then a horrible 
thought occurred to him. That dressing bag contained 
£5,000 of jewelry. Leonora had insisted upon bringing 
all “ his lovely presents” with her to wear in Paris, where 
she had relations who would ask them to balls and 
parties. 

The horrible idea which struck the elderly and discon- 


TALES OF TO-DAr. 


22t 


solate bridegroom was this : London thieves are very 
expert and very daring. Had some terrible gang of male- 
factors found out the value of Leonora and her jewel case, 
and had she been kidnapped, jewel case and all ? 

It was such a terrible wedding night that once or twice 
Tobias imagined that he was dreaming — that he had only 
married a beautiful girl in a dream, and that she had dis- 
appeared in a nightmare. Thinking over everything, in 
order to convince himself of the reality of the situation, 
he suddenly remembered that Leonora had informed him 
that she had engaged a new maid, and that this maid had 
been sent on to Paris with the “ heavy luggage’’ by the 
ten o’clock train in the morning, all this being the result of 
Leonora’s capital arrangements. 

Directly it was morning, Tobias rushed to the telegraph 
office, and sent a telegram, paying the reply, to the Paris 
Hotel. A faint hope that the maid might be able to give 
a clue to the mystery had entered his tortured breast. 
When the reply came it was to the effect that no lady’s 
maid with luggage had arrived in the hotel on the pre- 
vious day. 

That was the final blow. The fact that his bride had 
not arrived at Calais with him, and that her maid had not 
gone on to Paris with the boxes as arranged, was sufficient 
to prove to the unhappy Jones that there was more in his 
wife’s mysterious disappearance than at first met the 
eye. 

He waited in Calais all day, he made further inquiries, 
and then sadly and with an almost broken heart he re- 
turned to London and commenced to put mysterious ad- 
vertisements in the papers addressed to Leonora. 

But no Leonora replied, and in the absence of auntie, 
who had not sent her address at Carlsbad as promised, 
there was nothing more to be done. One thing he did, 
however, which had a result the reverse of comforting. 
He made inquiries about auntie in the neighborhood, and 
discovered that the house had been let to her furnished 
for a period, and that on the morning of leaving for for- 
eign parts she had omitted to pay the tradespeople their 
bills. And the shock of this discovery was increased 
when his son sent him up from the counting-house a num- 
ber of letters marked private, which on opening he found 
to contain bills for dresses and ornaments and female 


222 


TALES OF TO-EAY. 


finery generally, which had been supplied to “ Mrs. Tobias 
Jones,’' and they amounted to some hundreds of pounds. 

He paid these bills without a murmur. To dispute 
them would have led to exposure, and he felt he could 
never survive the shame of letting it be known that he 
had married a young girl of great beauty, who had in 
some mysterious way eluded him on his wedding day, 
and taken all his valuable presents with her. 

The position in which Mr. Jones found himself was 
extremely unpleasant. He was a married man, and he 
didn’t know where his wife was. He had read of mor- 
tals who had married fairy brides — the said brides disap- 
pearing forever when the bridegroom asked certain ques- 
tions, or sought to penetrate their private family secrets, 
but here was he, a respectable elderly City merchant, 
with a grown-up family, married to a mortal who had 
disappeared with fairy-like ease, and in disappearing had 
taken some thousands of pounds worth of property with 
her — a thing that no fairy bride in any story ever written 
ever thought of doing. 

Six months after his unfortunate marriage, Mr. Jones 
had resumed the even tenor of his way. He kept his 
story a profound secret from every one, and was still in 
the eyes of his family, friends, and neighbors, the steady- 
going old widower he had been in the days before he met 
Leonora Dalrymple and started on a honeymoon tour 
with her. 


It was about twelve months after his unpleasant matri- 
monial experience that Mr. Tobias Jones received a letter 
from a very old friend of his — a retired cloth manu- 
facturer, of Leeds. This gentleman, whose name was 
Oldroyd, was coming to town “on business,” and he 
would be glad if his old friend would call upon him at 
the Great Northern Hotel, at King’s Cross, on the follow- 
ing day. 

Tobias kept the appointment, and was shocked to see 
the change in his friend’s appearance. He was only a 
little past sixty, but he might have been eighty. The hale 
strong man was bent and broken as though a whirlwind 
had passed over him. 

“Good heavens, Oldroyd, how ill you look, ’’exclaimed 
Tobias, as he clasped his friend’s hand. 


TALES OF TO-BAY, 


223 


“I am ill, old fellow, dreadfully ill. I’ve been upset, 
worried ! I’ve had a great trouble lately, and it has shat- 
tered me completely.” 

“ Trouble — what sort of trouble } ” 

“Well, it’s a very delicate matter; but I must tell 
some one, and have advice. It isn’t a thing to talk about 
to everybody ; but I know I can trust you, and it won’t 
go any further.” 

“ Whatever you tell me I shall consider sacred.” 

The retired cloth manufacturer hesitated for a moment ; 
then he made a bold plunge “ into the middle of things ” 
and unburthened himself. 

“ The truth is, my friend. I’ve been an old fool. Some 
time ago I fell in love with a very beautiful young wo- 
man, whom I met while I was staying in Brussels. We 
got to be great friends, and she confided to me the story 
of her life. Her father had been an officer in the army, 
and had unfortunately, in his old age, owing to a reverse 
of fortune, become mixed up in a bill transaction. To 
put it plainly, he had signed the name of another man to 
a bill, believing that he would be able to take it up be- 
fore it became due. 

“Unfortunately, he was disappointed in his expecta- 
tions, and he was compelled to go to the person who had 
advanced the money, a wealthy but objectionable man, 
and ask him to be merciful. This man was a money 
lender. He had been connected with the old officer in 
some business transactions, and had visited at his house. 
Judge of the poor old man’s horror when the wretch re- 
fused to hold the bill over but threatened to present it at 
once and so have the forgery exposed, unless his victim 
consented to give him his daughter’s hand in marriage. 

“The poor old man in a moment of despair revealed 
the truth to his child, and she, like a noble girl, agreed to 
sacrifice herself for her parent. ” 

“The poor girl told me this portion of her story in the 
most artless manner, and it was only in answer to my fur- 
ther questions that I ascertained that the marriage was 
shortly to take place, but the prospect of it had so af- 
fected her health that the doctors had ordered her a com- 
plete change of scene, and she had come to Brussels to 
stay for a few weeks with her father’s sister, an old lady 
who lived in the Quartier Leopold, and with whom I met 


224 . 


TALES OF TO-LAY, 


her on several occasions. I felt deeply interested in the 
lovely young creature. Her fate was a very sad one, for 
she soon let me understand that her affianced husband 
was in every way an undesirable person. ‘I tremble and 
shudder whenever I see him,’ she cried, ‘and I shall 
have to pass my life with him.’ 

“ Does he love you } 

“ ‘ Love me ! ’ she cried, ‘ how could such a person 
love .? ’ 

“I asked the young lady if nothing could be done. 
She replied that she and her father had no friends. I 
asked her if I might see this person on her behalf, and 
she replied that I might, and told me that I should have 
an opportunity of doing so very soon, as he had written 
her to say that he was coming to Brussels on business in 
a day or two and should call to see her. 

“A few days afterwards I received a‘ note from the 
young lady saying that her persecutor was staying at the 
Hotel de L’Europe, and I let no time slip in seeking and 
obtaining an interview with Mr. Julius Moss, the gentle- 
man in question. 

“ I found him a handsome, middle-aged, vulgar, over- 
bearing sort of a person, a regular type of the low-class 
Jewish money lender, and I thought it best to be plain 
with him. 

“ He was exceedingly frank with me. He told me 

that he thought it was like my impudence to interfere 

in his private affairs, but he supposed I was ‘ spooney ’ 
on the girl myself. He’d been thinking the matter over, 
he said, and as he wasn’t in a particular hurry to get 
married, if I was such a friend of the young lady’s he 
would release her on the payment of £2,000, the amount 
of the father’s forged acceptance, and £1,000 over for his 
bargain. 

“ I attempted to argue the matter, but he cut me short. 
He didn’t understand sentiment, he said. He’d made a 
bargain with the girl’s father, and he was ready to carry 
it. ‘The money or the girl,’ that was his bargain, and 
if I liked to pay the money, why, I wa^ welcome to have 
the girl at the price. 

“ The coarseness of the fellow s proposition shocked 
me, but I was compelled to return to the young lady and 
inform her of the result of my interview. 


TALES OF TO-BAY. 


225 


I found her awaiting me at her relative’s house. If 
I had thought her beautiful before, I thought her still more 
beautiful now that I saw her flushed with hope, trembling 
with excitement, awaiting the result of my mission. I 
can’t tell you how it happened, but before I left the house 
I had asked .her if I freed her from this odious person if 
she would be my wife, and with tears of gratitude in her 
eyes she had confessed to me that she could desire no 
happier fate. 

“To make a long story short, I agreed to pay the 
£3,000, and on my return to town Mr. ^loss called at my 
offices by appointment, received my check and handed 
me the acceptance. 

“ The young lady in the meantime had returned to 
London, and I saw her daily at the hotel where she stayed 
with her relative who had accompanied her. Her father 
was to have joined her in town but was laid up with a 
bad attack of the gout at Penzance, where he had been 
staying with some friends. 

“ I found my charmer more beautiful, more amiable 
every day. A new career seemed opening to me. All 
my life I had been looked upon as a man who would 
never marry, and I felt a little ashamed of confessing to 
my friends that at my age I was about to unite myself 
to a girl young enough to be my daughter. So I loaded 
my darling with presents, and asked her if she would 
mind a quiet wedding and a nice long honeymoon 
abroad. She expressed herself as quite contented, but 
when she found out how rich I was, she confided to me 
with a blush that she was afraid she would not be able to 
make a very grand appearance at first. Very prettily, 
very modestly, she let me know that she was too poor to 
buy a suitable trousseau, and so -I ordered everything for 
her — gave her carte blanche to obtain all she wanted so that 
we might be away six months. 

“ We were married very quietly at a little church, and 
we were to return to the hotel, where all her trunks, etc., 
were packed and ready ; and after a quiet luncheon, to- 
gether with the old lady, her relative, and a friend of 
mine, who had been my best man, we were to start on 
our trip. 

“Then there happened the most astonishing thing. 
We drove back to the hotel, we were shown into a 


226 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


room where the luncheon was prepared, and my bride 
left us to give a few directions to her newly engaged 
maid who was to accompany us. 

“ We waited half an hour and then I began to get un- 
easy. I rang the bell and the sitting-room waiter came. 
I asked him to send a message up to the young lady by 
the chambermaid. Presently he returned to say that the 
young lady was not in her room. 

‘‘I was astonished. 

‘‘Further inquiries were made, and then it was ascer- 
tained that half-an-honr before, which must have been 
just as she left us, my wife had gone downstairs, through 
the hall and out at the front door. 

“That was a thunderclap, and it was followed by an- 
other when we ascertained that the maid had driven off 
with the boxes at an early hour that morning, the young 
lady herself seeing them loaded on to a cab, and giving 
her some parting instructions. 

“That was a month ago, my dear fellow,” said Mr. 
Oldroyd, wiping the perspiration from his forehead ; “ and 
from that day to this I have heard nothing of my wife, 
or the maid, and I am a married man without a wife, and 
a loser of £4,000 hard cash by the transaction, not to 
mention presents, and a trousseau which means another 
thousand at the least.” 

During the whole of this extraordinary narrative, To- 
bias Jones had never once interrupted, but his face had 
gradually assumed an expression of deeper and deeper in- 
terest. 

When his friend had finished, he said quietly, “Will 
you describe the young lady, please ? ” 

Mr. Oldroyd described the young lady, and there was 
no longer any doubt in Tobias’ mind. 

“My dear fellow,” he exclaimed, “this is a very ex- 
traordinary and a very dreadful affair. The young 
woman you have married is my wife ! ” 

“What!” 

Mr. Oldroyd almost leaped out of his chair with aston- 
ishment. 

But when Tobias had confided to his friend his own 
strange matrimonial experience, Mr. Oldroyd was con- 
vinced that his friend was right. These two old gentle- 
men had both been duped by the same adventuress. 


TALES OF TO-DA T. 


227 


“ You see,” exclaimed Tobias, “ you have this advan- 
tage over me. Your marriage was no marriage, and you 
are a free man still ; while ” 

‘‘Yes,” interrupted his friend, “I see that — but it is 
extremely annoying to have lost so much money by the 
transaction. What had we better do ? Go to the po- 
lice — -? ” 

Tobias hesitated. He didn’t relish the idea of that at 
all. The adventure which he had so carefully concealed 
would have to come out His sons would have to know, 
and the world would have to know, that he had made a 
fool of himself, not only in marrying so young a woman, 
but in marrying a woman who was simply a female 
swindler on a large scale. 

“ We won’t decide off-hand,” he said. “ We’ll think it 
over, my friend, we’ll think it over.” 

They did think it over, and as a first step they tried to 
find Mr. Moss, and failed utterly. He, of course, was in 
the swindle. He was a lover invented for the purposes 
of the comedy, and the forged bill which Mr. Oldroyd 
had purchased had probably been drawn and accepted by 
Mr. Moss himself or by some confederate. 

The old friends met again and again and started vari- 
ous little schemes, but none of them were successful in 
offering an elucidation to the mystery. Still they hesi- 
tated to go to the police and tell their story. The dread 
of exposure, the fear of making themselves the laughing- 
stock of their friends and relatives, held them back. 

What they would ultimately have done in order to ar- 
rive at a correct understanding of their matrimonial pre- 
dicament it is impossible to say. They were saved all 
further trouble in the matter by some one else taking the 
initiative. 

One day Mr. Oldroyd drove up in a hansom to Mr. 
Jones’s residence, leapt out and demanded to see “the 
master ” instantly. He was admitted, and rushed into 
Mr. Jones’s study, carefully locked the door, and then 
producing a newspaper from his pocket, flung it down, 
and cried “ Have you seen it, Jones, have you seen it? ” 

“Seen what? ” exclaimed Mr. Jones. 

“This trial in Paris which is reported in to-day’s 
Daily Telegraph. Read it — read it.” 

The old gentleman pointed a trembling finger at the 


228 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


portion he wanted Mr. Jones to read, and Mr. Jones read 
it, and when he had finished it the two friends looked at 
each other in blank dismay. What Mr. Jones had read 
at Mr. Oldroyd’s request was this — that a young woman 
of prepossessing appearance had been charged with 
swindling an elderly French baron by obtaining money 
and jewelry from him on the pretence that she would 
become his wife, and had left him immediately after the 
ceremony, taking with her the property out of which she 
had swindled the poor old fellow. The Paris police, how- 
ever, had been on the watch for the young lady, having 
obtained information as to her goings on from a woman 
with whom she had quarrelled, an elderly person who 
had assisted her in her nefarious plans and shared in the 
plunder. The Paris police were able to bring forward 
evidence that the young woman was already married, and 
had been for some years, to a man who was wanted for 
criminal transactions, and who from letters found in the 
lady’s possession was presumed also to have acted in 
concert with her in duping her elderly admirers. 

It was suggested at the trial that the young lady had 
not confined her field of operations to one country, as 
letters were found which related to adventures in Eng- 
land and in Belgium. 

The French baron’s case, however, was sufficient fo^r 
the purposes of the French police. The swindle in his 
case was proved to the hilt, and the fair adventuress was 
on the strength of it sentenced to a long term of imprison- 
ment 

Putting this and that together, Mr. Oldroyd and Mr. 
Jones knew beyond the possibility of a doubt that the 
French baron’s fair deceiver was the young lady they had 
both of them married and lost on their wedding-day, and 
they agreed, after long and earnest conversation, that as 
nothing was to be gained by their coming forward to ad- 
vertise themselves as victims, the best thing they could 
do was to lock up the secret of their extraordinary mat- 
rimonial adventures within their own breasts, and to be 
more careful how they yielded to the blandishments of 
young females in distress in the future. 

They have only one regret, which is that the young 
lady’s lawful husband, Mr. Julius IMoss, has not also been 
called upon to answer for his share in the transaction, 


TAL^S OF TO-DAr. 


22g 

for they both of them feel confident that the bulk of the 
money of which they were exploited had found its way 
into his possession, and that Mrs. Moss, when she has 
finished her term of imprisonment will have sufficient to 
live upon comfortably for the rest of her days — that is, 
unless Mr. Moss takes advantage of his good lady’s 
absence and goes off with the lot. In that case, a lady 
so skilled in the art of leading old gentlemen on to pop 
the question will probably get married a few times more 
and disappear on each wedding day with what may be 
vulgarly, but expressively, described as “-the swag.” 


XI. 

A RAILWAY ROMANCE. 

Mr. Charles Potts, familiarly known among his friends 
as Charley Potts, arrived at Euston Square Station within 
one minute of the hour that the Scotch Express was timed 
to start. 

“ Where for, sir ? ” said the porter, as he took Mr. Pott’s 
portmanteau from the cabman. 

“ Glasgow.” 

“ Quick then, sir, or you’ll miss it ; the train’s just off.” 

A wild dash at the ticket office, a scramble with his 
change, a rush through the booking office and along the 
platform, and Mr. Potts just seized the handle of a first- 
class carriage as the train commenced to move slowly out 
of the station. 

A man’s head was thrust out of the window, and an 
angry voice exclaimed, “This compartment is engaged.” 
But it was no time to stand on ceremony or to argue the 
question, so Mr. Potts pulled the door open and leaped 
in, an unwelcome guest, his portmanteau being hurled in 
after him by the porter. 

“ I’m sure I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Potts, as soon 
as he had recovered his breath and taken stock of his 
fellow-travellers, a gentleman and a young lady. “I was 
bound to get in where I could.” 

The gentleman glared at Mr. Potts and muttered some- 


230 


TALES OF TO-LAY. 


thing under his breath. The young lady, who was a 
pretty, rather sad-faced girl, of two or three and twenty, 
slightly bowed, and Mr. Potts made up his mind that as 
he was de irop he would change carriages at Rugby. 

Finding that his fellow-travellers were not inclined to 
unbend and become sociable, Mr. Potts took an evening 
paper from his pocket, and holding it up in front of him 
proceeded to study his companions from behind it. 

The man was a decent-looking fellow, tall, well-built 
and about thirty, but his expression was decidedly surly. 
The young lady was certainly pretty, but too pale and 
pensive looking. He thought she had been crying. He 
noticed that her lips trembled a little now and then, as if 
she was intensely nervous about something. 

Charley Potts was the junior partner in the firm of 
Stephenson, Potts and Fordham, solicitors, of Lincoln’s 
Inn Fields, and he was going to Glasgow on business. 
A client of the firm had telegraphed for some one to come 
to him at St. Enoch’s Hotel. The client in question was 
a Mr. Judson, a wealthy but eccentric old gentleman, 
who was the sole proprietor of a patent medicine by the 
sale of which he had made an enormous fortune. “ Jud- 
son’s Liver Pills ” were advertised over the length and 
breadth of the land. The onl)^ wonder was that the 
enormous sale of them had not made a disordered liver 
a complaint unknown in the three kingdoms, especially 
as they were warranted to cure {pide advertisement) after 
one box had been taken. 

The most remarkable feature ofMr. Judson’s case was 
this. In spite of his being sole proprietor of this marvel- 
lous medicine, he was the unhappy possessor of a liver 
which was in a chronic state of disturbance, and as a 
natural consequence he’ was as irritable, fanciful, melan- 
choly, dyspeptic, and crotchety an old widower as it 
was possible to find. 

It was after a furious quarrel with his only son, who 
was a Captain in a Line regiment, that an event happened 
which made the old man more melancholy, more irrita- 
ble, and more difficult to get on with than ever. Captain 
Judson had displeased his father by falling in love with a 
charming young lady who was only the governess in a 
family where the Captain was received as a guest — a 
family of distinction, and a titled family. Judson pere 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


23T 


had always cherished the idea that he should like to have 
a title in the family. He couldn’t expect a Countess to 
fall in love with him with all his infirmities, and at his 
time of life ; but he thought that his son, with his hand- 
some appearance, his military rank, and his splendid ex- 
pectations might at least secure a wife who would be a 
lady in her own right. He thought that “Captain and 
Lady Judson ’’ would sound exceedingly well, and he 
was, therefore almost beside himself with rage when he 
discovered that the Captain, instead of making love to 
Lady Aram in ta Fitzgerald, eldest daughter of an Irish 
Earl, had actually dared to fall in love with Miss Millicent 
Ashworth, governess to Lady Laura Fitzgerald, Lady 
Araminta’s youngest sister. 

The falling in love perhaps the Captain couldn’t help, 
but that he should have dared to allow his affection to be 
visible to the family to such an extent that the governess 
was dismissed with a quarter’s salary, and that he should 
further have requested his father to sanction an engage- 
ment, and to look upon Miss Ashworth as the future Mrs. 
Captain Judson, was the last straw that broke the camel’s 
back. 

When the Captain boldly announced the situation to 
his father, the latter absolutely danced about the room 
with rage. He clenched his fists. He went purple to 
the roots of his hair, he foamed at the mouth, and he 
swore with the oaths of his bygone poor and plebeian 
days, that if ever the Captain married “that young per- 
son ” he would leave every farthing of the pill money 
away from him — he would leave every shilling he was 
worth in the world to his nephew, Frank Stratford — and 
at the same time stop the allowance which the Captain 
enjoyed. 

The blow to his hopes had a disastrous effect upon the 
young officer. To driv-e away the melancholy thoughts 
which oppressed him, he plunged into excess, and one 
night, after a heavy drinking bout, a quarrel arising at the 
card table he so grossly insulted his colonel, who was 
looking on at the game, that the matter eventually led to 
his leaving the regiment 

Old Judson was then more furious than ever, and refus- 
ing to pay his son’s debts, or to have anything further to 
do with him. Jack Judson announced to his friends his 


232 


TALES OF TO-DAT. 


intention of going abroad. That was the last news that 
any one had of him. 

When twelve months had gone by, and the silence still 
remained unbroken, the old pill proprietor began to feel 
seriously uncomfortable. He blamed himself for what 
had happened, and his liver becoming worse, he worked 
himself into such a state of depression and nervousness 
that at last his health utterly broke down, and the doctors 
said that he was in a bad way. 

While travelling in Scotland he was taken seriously ill, 
and came to Glasgow to consult a physician there. At 
St. Enoch’s Hotel he grew worse, and believing himself 
that he should not recover, he sent written instructions to 
his solicitor to draft a new will for him, and later on he 
telegraphed for it to be brought to him that he might 
complete it. 

The junior partner was requested to attend to the mat- 
ter, and that is how it was that Mr. Charles Potts was 
travelling to Scotland by the night mail. 

As soon as he had taken a general observation of his 
fellow-passengers, Mr. Potts opened his dressing bag and 
took out his travelling cap, and proceeded to make him- 
self comfortable, as it was a good two hours to Rugby, 
where he intended to change carriages, it being evident 
that he was regarded as an intruder where he was. 

He had an evening paper with him, and this he com- 
menced to read, but gradually a sense of drowsiness stole 
over him, and presently he fell fast asleep. 

When he awoke, the train Avas rattling along through 
the darkness at full speed. Half opening his eyes, he 
looked toward his fellow travellers. The young lady had, 
like himself, fallen asleep, but the man was reading a 
legal looking document which had evidently been taken 
from a bag beside him. When he had finished it he folded 
it up, and was about to put it back into the bag when he 
uttered a cry of pain and fell back on the seat. 

Charley Potts sprang up and went towards him, and at 
the same moment the young lady started up. 

‘H’m afraid the gentleman is ill,” said Charley. ‘'He 
has fainted.” 

The girl looked at her companion’s face. It was deadly 
pale and the eyes were closed. 

^‘It is a heart attack,” she cried, “he is subject to 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


233 

them. What can we do } Hadn’t we better pull the 
cord and stop the train ? ” 

“Nothing could be done till we got to a station. Per- 
haps a little brandy will revive him. I have some in my 
flask.” 

Charley put his flask to the sick man’s lips, and forcing 
his mouth open, poured a little down his throat. Present- 
ly the color returned to his cheeks. 

“ He’s better now,” said Charley, “it may have been 
only a sudden faintness ; don’t alarm yourself. ” 

The man drew a deep breath and opened his eyes. 

“ I’m better now,” he murmured, “ I shall be all right 
presently. ” 

‘ ‘ That’s all right, ” said Charley. ‘ ‘ Y ou’d better sit quite 
quiet and not talk for a bit. We shall be at the station 
directly, and then you’d better break your journey, I 
should think.” 

“No, no, it’s impossible. I must be in Glasgow to- 
morrow morning.” 

“Well, you know best, but don’t try to talk now, 
there’s a good fellow. Have a little more brandy.” 

The man took the proffered flask and almost emptied 
it. It evidently revived him, for he sat up and his face 
became of a healthier color. 

But presently he put his hand to his heart again, and 
his breathing became difficult 

“The pain is coming on again,” he groaned, “I’m 
afraid I’m going to have a bad attack. ” 

He turned to the girl. “ If I get worse I must stay at 
Rugby,” he said, “but you will go on.” 

“Yes.” 

“You know what you have to do ? ” 

“Yes.” 

The invalid’s prognostication was verified. By the 
time Rugby was reached he was so ill that he had to be 
removed from the train and carried into the waiting room, 
where a doctor was sent for. 

The young lady wished to accompany him, but the 
man refused to allow it. After he had been carried away 
she took her bag and asked to be put in a compartment 
where there were some ladies. Her request was complied 
with, and when the train started, Charley Potts was 


234 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


alone in the compartment he had been thrown into at 
Euston. 

Being alone he lit a cigar. He flung the wax vesta 
which he had used down on the floor. Instead of going 
out it continued to flame under the seat where it had 
fallen. He took his umbrella and stooped down to put 
it out. As he stooped he caught sight of something. He 
fished it out with his umbrella, and found that it was the 
document which the gentleman who had been taken ill 
had been perusing. In the confusion it had evidently 
fallen on to the floor, and in moving about the carriage 
he or the lady had swept it out of sight, so that neither of 
them noticed that it had fallen down. 

The document consisted of several sheets of foolscap 
paper. 

What kind of a document it was Mr. Potts knew with- 
out opening it, for indorsed upon it where these words, 
“The Will of James Judson, Esq.” 

The discovery took Charley’s breath away. He could 
scarcely believe his eyes. 

Could it be possible that Mr. Judson had secured an- 
other solicitor, and this solicitor had been taking down 
the draft of a will for Mr. Judson — just as he was doing. 

Perhaps it was merely a wonderful coincidence, and 
there were two James Judsons desirous of making wills, 
and both were in Glasgow. 

Inspired by a curiosity natural under the circumstances, 
Charley Potts opened the document and read it. 

The first paragraph showed him that the James Judson 
in question was his own client. Then he read on — read 
on with an expression of astonishment on his face that 
increased as he proceeded, until, by the time he had 
finished, his eyes were almost starting from his head. 

He opened his own bag, and drew from it the draft for 
Mr. Judson’s will, which had been prepared by his own 
firm according to Mr. Judson’s written instructions. 

He read that through, compared it with the document 
he had picked up, and then put both drafts away together 
in his bag, and locked it. 

“There’s a mystery here,” he exclaimed, “ to which 
Mr. Judson alone can supply the key. I shall certainly 
ask for his explanation to-morrow.” 

Mr. Potts sat back in his corner and finished his cigar ; 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


235 


when that was out he smoked another. He found it im- 
possible to go to sleep. His brain was too active. He 
was thinking of the two drafts for the will of the same man, 
each diametrically opposed to the other, and of both of 
which, by an extraordinary accident, he was now the 
possessor. 

When he left off trying to fathom that mystery in 
despair, he began to wonder who the young lady was 
who had accompanied the original bearer of the myste- 
rious document, and how far she was concerned in the 
affair. 


At nine o’clock on the following morning Mr. Potts was 
ushered into the presence of Mr. Judson. The old gen- 
tleman was in bed, and a glance showed the young sol- 
icitor how ill he was. 

^‘I’m glad you’ve come, Potts,” he said. “I was 
getting anxious. I don’t think I shall ever get over this 
bout, and I want to leave everything straight. You’ve 
brought the will for me to sign ? ” 

“ I’ve brought a draft for your approval,” replied Mr. 
Potts. “If it’s all right I can prepare the actual deed 
here in a very short time.” 

“That’s all right. You see the last will I made left 
everything to my nephew, Frank Stratford. I made it 
after the quarrel with my son. But I couldn’t die and 
leave the boy penniless. I’ve forgiven him long ago, 
and I don’t want to be unjust to him.” 

“ Quite right, sir. We understand from your instruc- 
tions that the bulk of your fortune goes to your son, and 
the sum of five thousand pounds goes to your nephew.” 

“Yes, that will be quite fair.” 

“ There are the smaller legacies as well. Shall I read 
the draft to you, or will you read it yourself?” 

“Read it to me, please, my eyesight is very bad. In 
fact I can’t read at all now.” 

Mr. Potts drew from his bag a document which he 
commenced to read. 

It was the draft of a will which left his entire fortune 
to his son on condition that he never married Millicent 
Ashworth. 

As the lawyer began to read the conditions the invalid 
sat up in bed. 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


236 

“ What the devil are you reading-, sir? ” he cried in his 
old passionate manner. “I never told you to insert such 
a clause. ” 

The young lawyer, without noticing the interruption, 
read on. 

“If my said son at the time of my death be married to 
the said Millicent Ashworth, or if he shall at any time 
marry her, the estate shall pass to my nephew Frank 
Stratford " 

Charley Potts got no further. 

Mr. Judson was almost black in the face with passion. 

“Confound you, ” he yelled, “what do you mean by 
this conduct, sir ? There was nothing of the sort in the 
instructions I sent you.” 

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” replied Mr. Potts, “ Fve 
been reading the wrong draft. This is one I picked up in 
the train I travelled from London by last night.” 

Then Mr. Potts explained the whole circumstance, to 
the utter amazement of his client. 

Just as he finished there was knock at the door, and 
Mr. Judson’s servant came in. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir, but there’s a young lady come 
from London, and she wishes to see you on most im- 
portant business.” 

“ That’s the woman,” exclaimed Mr. Potts. 

Then Mr. Judson asked the servant if the young lady 
gave any name. 

“Yes, sir, she said I was to say Miss Ashworth.” 

“ Miss Ashworth ! ” exclaimed the lawyer. “ See her 
— I’ll go and come back again in half-an-hour.” 

Half-an-hour later Mr. Potts returned to the sick room, 
and found Mr. Judson alone. 

“ Well,” he said, “what had the young lady to say ? ” 

“She has told me a most extraordinary story,” said 
Mr. Judson. “ What it is I have promised to reveal to 
no one. How long do you stay in Glasgow ? ” 

“ Why do you ask ? ” 

“Because I must have time to think what I am going 
to do. ” 

‘‘You don’t wish to sign the will for which you gave 
us instructions, at present. Is that what you mean ? ” 

“Yes. Leave both the drafts with me, will you ?” 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


nr 


‘ ‘ Certainly, if you desire it, ” replied the young solicitor ; 
“but pray weigh well what you are going to do. Did 
Miss Ashworth tell you who the gentleman was who ac- 
companied her until he was taken ill ? ” 

“Yes. It was my nephew, Frank Stratford.” 

Mr. Potts gave a little whistle which meant a great 
deal. 

“So he and your son’s former sweetheart were coming 
to see you together, eh .? And your nephew was bringing 
you this extraordinary document. He evidently intended 
to try and make you sign it” 

“ Undoubtedly. Frank is subject to these heart attacks 
I know ; but he speedily recovers from them. He will 
probably come on here in a day or two. I would rather 
sign nothing until I have seen him.” 

“ You have of course a perfect right to do as you 
choose, Mr. Judson,” said Charley, “but I tell you can- 
didly I don’t like the idea of these two people being in 
league. There is more in it than you probably imagine. ” 

“At any rate the girl must be disinterested. If I left 
my money to my son unconditionally she would be his 
wife and benefit by it. ” 

“ Do you mean to say that she asks you to disinherit 
your son if he should marry her.? ” 

“I mean to say that in consequence of what she has 
told me I shall sign no will until I have seen Frank 
Stratford. Can you wait a few days and see if he 
comes ? ” 

“Certainly. I’ll take a room here and wait your further 
instructions.” 

“Very well, but don’t bother me. If I want you I’ll 
send for you. Good morning.” 

Mr. Potts accepted his conge with a good grace, and 
telegraphed at once to his firm to say that he should be 
detained perhaps longer than he expected. 

Then he made himself comfortable and amused him- 
self as well as he was able to in Glasgow. 

Two days after this strange interview with his client, 
he was sitting in the smoking-room of the hotel which 
looks out upon the station, when he saw among the 
newly-arrived passengers on the platform a gentleman 
whom he at once recognised as his fellow traveller, Mr, 
Frank Stratford, 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


238 

“ He has come, then,’' he said to himself. “ Now I 
shall soon see what the next move is to be. ” 

Late that evening a message was delivered to him from 
Mr. Judson. Would he come to that gentleman’s room 
at once. 

He went and found his client alone. 

“Mr. Potts,” said the invalid, “I have decided to 
make a will on the lines of this draft. Be good enough 
to have it properly prepared.” 

Charley took the draft and saw at once that it was the 
document he had picked up in the railway train. Mr. 
Judson had determined to disinherit his son if he should 
marry Millicent Ashworth. Two days afterwards a will 
was duly signed by Mr. Judson and witnessed by two of 
the clerks of a local solicitor, who was the agent in 
Glasgow of Messrs. Stephenson, Potts, and Fordham. 

Charley Potts left Glasgow at once and returned to his 
duties in town, more than ever mystified at the con- 
nection between Stratford and Miss Ashworth, and 
the reasons they were able to urge to induce Mr. Judson 
to accept their draft of a will instead of the one prepared 
for him by his solicitors according to his own written in- 
structions. 

Mr. Judson recovered sufficiently to return to London, 
but he did not live very long. Three months afterwards 
the firm received the news of his death, and then it be- 
came necessary that his son should be found. 

An advertisement was at once inserted in the London 
and in the Colonial papers. But a week after Mr. Judson’s 
funeral Mr. Frank Stratford called upon the firm and was 
shown into Mr. Charley Potts’ room. 

He stated his business at once. 

“I have called upon you,” he said, “ with regard to my 
uncle’s will.” 

“You have no knowledge of the son, I suppose,” said 
Charley. 

“None, nor do I think we need trouble very much 
about him. Look at this.” 

Mr. Stratford took a paper from his pocket. It was a 
copy of a marriage certificate, one of those copies which 
are obtained at Somerset House on payment of a shilling. 
It was a copy of the marriage certificate of Charles Judson 


TALES OF TO-DA T. 


239 

and Millicent Ashworth, and was dated fifteen months 
previously. 

At the time Captain Judson disappeared he was the 
husband of Millicent Ashworth. Under the terms of his 
father’s will Frank Stratford was therefore the possessor 
of the fortune which his son had forfeited. 

“Mr. Stratford,” exclaimed Charley, as he put the dupli- 
cate down and looked steadily at his visitor, “at the time 
you induced your uncle to make a will according to your 
suggestions, you were fully aware of your cousin’s mar- 
riage ? ” 

Mr. Stratford shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Does that in any way affect my legal position.” 

“Certainly not.” 

“Then that is my business and no one else’s. I have 
merely called to save you further trouble in advertising 
for the missing man, and to inform you that I shall at 
once put in my claim to the property.” 

Charley Potts was, in his own expressive phraseology 
“fairly staggered.” The position was plain. Frank 
Stratford had played his own game with diabolical cun- 
ning. Knowing of his cousin’s marriage, he had suc- 
ceeded in making that marriage a bar to his cousin’s 
heirship. 

But the girl herself, the Captain’s wife, what could have 
been her motive in assisting in her husband’s ruin. This 
was what Mr. Potts thought he would like to ascertain. 
He redoubled his exertions to find the missing man, and 
he sent cables to Melbourne and Sydney to well-known 
solicitors, asking them to try and discover young Jud- 
son’s whereabouts, a rumor having reached him that 
the young man was in Australia ; and he secured the 
services of a private inquiry agent in London and in- 
structed him to try and find out the lady who had called 
herself by her maiden name at the time she was a married 
woman. 

Every effort to find Miss Ashworth, or Mrs. Judson, 
failed in London, and no news coming from Australia, 
Mr. Potts was almost in despair, when one day the 
private detective came to him and informed him that he 
had at last discovered a lady who answered the descrip- 
tion given to him of Miss Ashworth. 

“ Where is she ? ” asked Mr. Potts, eagerly. 


240 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


She is living in a house in Edith-grove, Brompton,” 
ansvrered the detective, ‘ ‘ but if she is the lady in ques- 
tion its a rummier game than even you imagined.” 

‘ ‘ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Only that the lady I am referring to is living with 
Mr. Stratford. He rents the house in Edith-grove, and 
spends the most of his time there.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” exclaimed Charley, “ what a scoun- 
drel that fellow must be if this is true. It shows the 
woman’s motive for trying to get her husband s fortune 
for her lover, but I can’t believe that a girl like Miss Ash- 
worth, a woman poor Captain Judson could have asked 
to be his wife, would behave in such an infamous way. 
However, we’ll sift this matter to the bottom now. Find 
out all you can about the precious couple at once — how 
long they have been living together — everything — you 
understand ? ’’ 

“I’ll do my best,” said the detective, “and report to 
you as soon as I have anything fresh.” 

The detective had hardly left when one of the clerks 
came in with a cable which had just arrived. 

Mr. Potts opened it and gave an exclamation of delight 
It was as follows : — 

“ From Morell, Sydney. Judson left Sydney some 
weeks ago by Massillia for London. ” 

Two minutes afterwards Charley Potts was in a hansom, 
being driven rapidly to the offices of the Peninsula and 
Oriental Steamship Company. 

There he ascertained that the Massillia was expected to 
arrive in a couple of days. 

He determined to meet it He would give young Jud- 
son no chance of disappearing again. He had arranged 
at the P. & O. office to have a telegram informing him 
when it was actually likely to arrive, and this he duly re- 
ceived and went to the docks to meet the ship. He 
went on board directly she came alongside, and made in- 
quiries for Mr. Judson. While he was inquiring a gen- 
tleman passed him. He recognized him directly. It was 
Captain Judson himself 

The interview that followed was short, but to the pur- 
pose. The Captain knew nothing of his father’s death. 
He had been out to a sheep farming settlement. He had 
made a little money, and then was fairly lucky when 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


24 


dabbling in land. Finding himself independent and on 
his way to make a fortune, he had* determined to come 
back to England and try and be reconciled to his father, 
and then to return. 

He was very grieved to hear of his father’s death. As 
soon as he had partially recovered from the shock, he 
said, “ By-the-bye I must introduce you to Mrs. Judson. 
She’s getting her things together in the cabin. She’ll be 
up directly.” 

“ Your wife !” Mr. Potts exclaimed, in astonishment. 
“ I thought you left her at home in England.” 

“Indeed I did not. She went with me, like the 
brave, true-hearted little woman she is. Here she 
comes.” 

As he spoke a pretty dark little woman came up to 
him. 

“ Millicent, my dear,” said the Captain, “this is Mr. 
Potts, our family solicitor.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Mr. Potts, wondering 
if he was awake, or asleep and dreaming, “but was this 
lady formerly Miss Millicent Ashworth ?” 

“She was.” 

“Then who the devil is the other woman?” cried 
Charley, forgetting in his excitement that he was in the 
presence of a lady. 

The clue to the mystery which had staggered Mr. Potts, 
and which also filled Captain Judson and his wife with 
amazement, was furnished a few days later by the detec- 
tive. Following up the information which he had ob- 
tained, that gentleman managed to find out that the lady 
with whom Frank Stratford was living was his wife — 
that her maiden name was not Millicent Ashworth but 
Mary Burton. Mr. Potts was taken to Edith-grove and 
waited several hours one day for the lady to come out. 
When she did he at once recognized her as the lady with 
whom he had travelled, and who had gone to Mr. Judson 
and represented herself as Millicent Ashworth, his son’s 
sweetheart. 

This was a discovery, but it still left the conspirators in 
possession of the fortune which should have been young 
Judson’s. 

What had she told the sick man to induce him to make 


242 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


such a will, and how could that will, which had evidently 
been obtained by misrepresentations, be upset. 

A letter which was found among Mr. Judson’s effects, 
a letter addressed to his son, cleared up a portion of the 
mystery. “ My dear son,” it ran, “I earnestly hope that 
this letter may fall into your hands, that your long silence 
will soon be broken, and that you will let your friends 
know where you are. You may think the terms of my 
will hard, but the woman for whose sake you sacrificed 
your position and your prospects, your home and your 
friends, has had the honesty to tell me what she would 
not tell you. She does not love you, and desires to 
prevent any recurrence of your mad folly on her ac- 
count She is terrified lest on your return to England 
you should resume your attentions to her. If you do 
she will accept you — that is if you are still my heir. 
Her father, of whom she is greatly afraid, for reasons 
which she has confided to me under a solemn promise 
of secrecy, will force her to accept you if you are a man 
of fortune. My dear son, she does not wish to marry you, 
because she loves another man. Flattered by your atten- 
tion to her she hesitated to tell you so at first. Afterwards 
her father insisted upon her encouraging your suit. But 
if your marriage with her robs you of the fortune which is 
your great attraction in her father’s eyes, his object will 
be gone, and she will be free to follow the dictates of her 
own heart. By leaving you my fortune under the con- 
ditions I have, I am, I feel sure, preserving you from 
making a grievous mistake, and really securing your 
ultimate happiness. ” 

“Well,” exclaimed the Captain, as he put down the 
letter, “of all the frauds I have heard of, this is the most 
infamous. The poor old gentleman must have been weak 
indeed to be taken in by such a cock and bull story. The 
woman must have been clever to make him believe it” 

“ She was a woman that / should have believed,” ex- 
claimed Mr. Potts ; “no one to look at her would suspect 
her of anything but candor and simplicity itself. It was 
Frank Stratford who coached her, you may depend upon 
it She acted entirely under his influence. There is no 
doubt that he backed her story up, and made the old man 
believe that he had found out how things were, and was 
anxious to do his cousin a good turn.” 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


243 


“ However it was done, it was done, for here’s the letter 
and you’ve seen the will,” cried the Captain ; “it’s ex- 
traordinary, but it’s unfortunately a fact. I can under- 
stand my father being deceived as to the girl’s identity, 
as he had never, of course, seen Millicent. We can’t 
alter all that now ; the question is, can we upset the will 
by proving the fraud by which it was obtained ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said the solicitor, “at any rate we will 
have a good try.” 

The necessity to try the case did not arise. Mr. Strat- 
ford was communicated with, and Mr. Potts had an inter- 
view with him. He was quite unprepared for the letter 
which his uncle had left behind him. That was evident- 
ly a blow. He had counted upon no one knowing how 
the will was obtained, or the part the false Millicent Ash- 
worth had played in it He had compelled his wife to 
aid him, and had calculated that once the will was ob- 
tained from the weak and dying man, nothing would ever 
be known of the plot he had conceived and carried out 

Fairly cornered, like most cunning schemers he showed 
the white feather. The threats of prosecution for fraud 
terrified him, and he realized for the first time that his 
conduct had been criminal in the eyes of the law. 

In the end he placed himself at the mercy of the man 
he had injured, and the matter was compromised by his 
giving up voluntarily, and legally securing to Captain 
Judson the fortune of which he had deprived him. 

Then the Captain was generous, and agreed to give 
him the £5,000, and pay him an annual income as long 
as he lived. 

He didn’t live two years after the matter was settled, 
but died suddenl)' of heart disease. 

After his death his wife went abroad and eventually 
married again. But when he heard of her second mar- 
riage, Captain Judson, in spite of her share in the transac- 
tion that had nearly cost him a fortune, continued her 
husband’s allowance to her. 

The Captain and his wife have not returned to Australia. 
A young gentleman made his appearance shortly after 
their arrival in London, and they determined to remain in 
the old country and not try the sheep farming again. 

It would be too rough a life for the baby who, in honor 
of the young solicitor who had fought his father’s battle 


244 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


so well, was christened Charles Potts Judson. And 
sometimes, when the elder Charley is giving- his godson 
a ride to Banbury Cross, he says, “Ah, my boy, things 
might have been very different if I hadn’t been so late 
for my train that night I shouldn’t have been put into 
the compartment reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Frank Strat- 
ford. Moral : Never get to a station too long before the 
train starts.” 


XII. 

THE PRISON BABY. 

“ Then you think you can arrange it for me ? ” 

“Yes, I shall have to get permission from the Home 
Office, but I can do that, and then if you like I will take 
you over myself. You’ll see a great deal more.” 

“ Thanks ; that will be splendid. When can you man- 
age it ” 

“Let me see. To-morrow’s Monday. Suppose we say 
Friday afternoon, will that suit you ? ” 

“ Capitally.” 

“Then that’s an appointment. You’d better call forme 
at my house and we’ll drive to the prison together.” 

“ A thousand thanks. Good-day.” 

“ Good-day.” 

The speakers were Mr. Dinmore Smith, the well-known 
dramatist, and Captain Danvers, one of Her Majesty’s In- 
spectors of Prisons. 

Mr. Dinmore Smith was writing a drama for production 
at a West End Theatre, and one of the principal scenes 
was the interior of a female prison. The heroine, who 
was, of course, innocent, as all heroines are in modern 
melodramas, was to be found guilty of a crime on circum- 
stantial evidence and sentenced to a long term of impris- 
onment. In the prison her husband was to visit hei, 
and in a pathetic scene the audience was to be moved to 
tears ; these tears were to be chased away by laughter at 
the antics of another female convict, who was eventually 
to assist the heroine in escaping from the jail. 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


245 

In order to put the scene on the stage with that correct- 
ness of detail which is a feature of most modern theatrical 
productions, it was necessary that the author should have 
an opportunity of studying his subject from personal ob- 
servation. He must obtain access to a female prison, and 
remain there sufficiently long to take note of the rules and 
regulations of the establishment and the manners and cus- 
toms of the inhabitants. 

But for a stranger — especially a male stranger, and one 
actuated by a motive purely personal to himself — to ob- 
tain access to a female prison, is no easy task. Male 
visitors are rigidly excluded, except in the case of ver}’’ 
distinguished people indeed. 

Male relatives may visit the female prisoner on visiting 
days, but they are only allowed just inside the gates 
where the visiting room is situated. The interior of the 
building can only be penetrated on the production of the 
Home Secretary's “Open Sesame,” and that, as I have 
said, is only granted in very special cases. 

Mr. Dinmore Smith was at his wit's end as to how to 
obtain the desired permission. He didn't know any 
members of Parliament, or high officials, and was given 
to understand that his plea that he wanted to see the 
prison to make a stage scene of it, would hardly be con- 
sidered by the authorities as a good and sufficient excuse 
for breaking through their very wholesome rule. 

Captain Danvers was one of Her Majesty's Inspectors. 
Mr. Dinmore Smith had met the Captain at one or two 
literary dinner parties, and they had become friendly over 
the post-prandial cigars and coffee. But it was only at 
the last moment, and when he was in despair, that Mr. 
Smith remembered the Captain’s position, and would be 
able to do all that was possible for him. 

He called on the Captain, stated his case frankly, and 
the conversation with which the reader is already familiar 
was the result. The difficulty was overcome, the drama- 
tist would be able to master the details and get his local 
coloring under the personal guidance of one of the 
high officials. 

On the following Friday, Mr. Dinmore Smith, with his 
note book in his pocket, was at the Captain's house at the 
appointed hour, and about twenty minutes later the little 
door in the great gates of — Prison openod for them 


246 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


and they stepped through, while the officer at the gate 
saluted them respectfully. 

Before Her Majesty’s Inspector, bolts and bars flew 
asunder — great doors flew open and male and female 
officials hurried to do his bidding and to attend his tri- 
umphal progress. 

Mr. Dinmore Smith played moon to the Captain’s sun. 
He shone with a borrowed light, but still he shone. He 
was an important personage inside that prison, because 
he was the compainon of one of Her Majesty’s Inspectors. 
The rigor of the ordinary routine which is observed in 
conducting a visitor over the prison was relaxed, and the 
officers were most anxious that the captain should be 
pleased. For all they knew he was there on official 
business, making an official inspection. 

But still the presence of a stranger made itself felt. The 
prisoners knew who the Inspector was — the old ones had 
seen him before, and the new ones knew him by the 
manner in which he was received. When the Inspector 
comes along the prisoners must desist from any work 
they are doing, and stand at attention that he may look 
at them. The officer in charge instantly gives the order, 
and all the women stand erect, and face towards the im- 
portant official. 

But in the corridors where a few female convicts were 
at work, Mr. Dinmore Smith, having got a little ahead, 
noticed that as he came along the women left their work 
and stood up with their faces turned to the wall till he had 
passed. This was in pursuance of a humane rule in prison 
discipline which is intended to give the prisoners an 
opportunity of concealing their features from the ordinary 
visitor, in order that no future recognition may take place. 
A woman having purged her offence and being liberated 
does not always want to run the risk of being recognized 
as a jail bird when she endeavors to atone for the past by 
earning an honest living. 

Mr. Dinmore Smith went into the cells and questioned 
the matron and the officials, gathered his facts and made 
his little notes. He was conducted to the “dark” — the 
gloomy cell in which refractory prisoners are placed — he 
saw the infirmary, and, saddest sight of all, the nursery, 
the room in which the children born in the prison pass 
their early days. 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


247 


The dramatist stood for some little time in the prison 
nursery and gazed at the children. A vague idea was in 
his mind, endeavoring to take definite shape. He felt 
that there was a drama, a romance, a tragedy, perhaps, 
being enacted before his eyes, and that this was the pro- 
logue. 

Born in a prison ! 

What a terrible thing for an innocent boy or girl to 
realize in afterlife — “I was born in jail.” Mr. Smith 
began to formulate his idea. He selected a beautiful little 
girl baby for his little heroine. She was to leave the 
prison and grow up amid far different surroundings. She 
was never to know that she was a prison child — born of 
a felon-mother in the jail lying-in ward, until — until 
when } He couldn’t quite make up his mind whether it 
was to be her marriage morning or not, and before he 
had arrived at any definite conclusion he was roused from 
his reverie by the voice of Her Majesty’s Inspector. 

“Capital place for the children, isn’t it ?” said the Cap- 
tain. 

“ Yes ; very nice, very nice indeed,” replied Mr. Smith, 
hesitatingly ; then seeing the principal matron behind the 
Captain, he ventured to improve the occasion with a pro- 
fessional view to the future. 

“ What a sweet little baby girl that is,” he said, point- 
ing to the child which had attracted his attention. “Is 
her mother a very bad woman ? ” 

— “ No,” replied the matron, “ on the contrary she is one 
of our best prisoners.” 

“ Poor creature ! What is she here for ? ” 

“It was rather a celebrated case,” replied the matron. 
“ You remember a casein which a man chloroformed 
and robbed a jeweller’s assistant who had brought some 
diamonds to his apartments to show him ? 

“ Yes ; I remember it well.” 

“This poor girl, whose baby that is, was the man’s ac- 
complice. She assisted in the plot and kept the assistant 
in conversation while the trick was played, and after the 
robbery had been effected she attempted to pawn some of 
the jewels. The evidence against her at the trial was 
very strong and though there was a certain amount of 
sympathy for her, she was convicted.” 

“ She wasn’t his wife, of course ?” 


248 


TALt:S OF TO-DAT. 


“ No, that might have been something in her favor.” 

“ She was living with the man, then.” 

I suppose so. It was generally understood so. The 
child was born after she had been here about six months. ” 

“ Poor creature ! Does she say anything about it ? ” 

“ No ; she is very nice and very gentle, and we have 
no trouble with her, but she is very uncommunicative.” 

‘ ‘ I should like to see her. I remember the case, though 
I was out of England at the time. The man was much 
older than the woman, was he not ? ” 

“ Yes, he was about fifty, and she couldn't have been 
more than twenty-three.” 

“ I should like to see her if I might.” 

The matron shook her head. 

“ I'm sorry I can't oblige you,” she said, but the 
poor woman is very unwell. We had to send her into 
the infirmary last week, and it wouldn't do for me to take 
a stranger in there. We have two very bad cases there 
just at present.” 

Mr. Dinmore Smith visited the other parts of the prison, 
several cells were opened for him, and the occupants 
came to the threshold and stood there silent and motion- 
less. 

It is the prison rule that on the door being opened, the 
prisoner shall at once rise and come to the front, and the 
movement was executed so mechanically that it reminded 
Mr. Smith of the Swiss clocks, in which, as the hour 
strikes, the Swiss girl comes out of a door, stands for a 
moment, and then retires with a jerk. 

The prisoners comprised all sorts and conditions of 
women, from the young girl, in all the strength and vigor 
of early youth, to the old gray-haired hag, bent and feeble 
and puckered with age. 

Some few of the faces were fair and comely to look upon, 
but in most instances vice and crime had left their mark 
upon the features, and if the soul of goodness was there 
at all, it was far too deeply hidden to leave any outward 
and visible sign of its presence. 

Mr. Smith saw all that he wanted to see, made a rapid little 
sketch of the scene that he thought would be the best for 
his purpose, put a leading question or two to the matron 
in order to get his “ probabilities ” all right, and then 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


249 

thanking her for her courtesy, left the building with the 
Captain. 

He had quite a feeling of relief when he was outside the 
gloomy walls and breathing the free air again, and he said 
so. The whole scene had saddened and depressed him, 
and he hadn’t shaken the feeling off when he bade the 
Captain good-bye and made his way back to his chambers 
to write out his notes, and re-read his play to see how far 
the situation he had worked out was in accordance with 
what could happen in a properly conducted prison. 

But somehow or other he found it impossible to fix his 
attention on his play. His thoughts kept wandering back 
to the pretty little girl in the prison nursery, and the young 
convict mother he had been unable to see. 

He remembered something of the case. He had been 
in Italy at the time it occurred, and he had only seen the 
first accounts of it. He had missed the English news- 
papers in travelling, and only heard from the conversa- 
tion of the English he met in trains and at hotels, that the 
man and woman had both been convicted. 

“Til read that case up,” he said to himself. “It will be 
awfully interesting now. I'll find the date of the trial 
to-morrow, and get at a file of the Daily Telegraph some- 
where. Poor girl, I suppose she was guilty. I wonder 
if the man troubles himself about her. Fancy loving a 
woman and knowing that she’s in prison, and that her 
baby is to be born there. It’s awful ! It makes one 
shudder to think of it. Ah, me ! the dramas that the play- 
wrights invent for the boards are nothing to the dramas 
that are played out day after day upon the stage of life. 
I’ll read that case to-morrow somewhere. I shan’t do a 
stroke of work till I’ve got it off my mind.” 

Mr. Smith threw his MSS. back into a drawer and lit a 
pipe, and leant back in his easy-chair and watched the 
smoke curling up to the ceiling 

He was still thinking of the young convict mother and 
her baby girl in prison. 


Mr. Smith was saved the trouble of looking for the date 
of the trial. He remembered that a friend of his — a 
brother dramatist, with whom he occasionally collabo- 
rated — was in the habit of cutting out murders and rob- 


250 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


beries and “ good ” trials, and sticking them in a scrap 
book for professional purposes. 

To this friend he repaired on the morrow, and soon 
found what he wanted. 

Borrowing the book which contained the report of the 
trial, he took it back with him to his chambers to read it 
at his leisure. 

The story was a simple one, but the cool ingenuity 
with which the crime had been carried out had made it a 
remarkabl case. 

On the morning of the 2d of September, 188-, a gentle- 
man had called upon Messrs. Silverton and Co., jewellers, 
of New Bond-street, and had requested to see some dia- 
mond rings and a diamond locket. After examining the 
articles that were submitted to him, he selected a ring and 
a locket, and then asked to see a diamond tiara. Two or 
three were shown him, and he was about to fix upon one 
of them when he hesitated. “I should like my wife to 
see them herself,’' he exclaimed ; ‘‘ she might not like my 
selection." 

“We shall be very happy to show them to the lady if 
she calls," said the manager." 

“Of course, but it’.-^ rather awkward; my wife is con- 
fined to the room with a bad cold and must not come out, 
and to-morrow is her birthday. I want to make her a 
present of these things. Would it be troubling you too 
much to let one of your assistants bring a few rings and 
lockets and the tiara you have shown me to my house 
this afternoon. 

The shopman hesitated. “ Where do you live, sir ?" 

The gentleman gave an address in one of the fashion- 
able streets in Piccadilly, and, after consulting with the 
manager, the shopman informed the customer that the 
jewelry would be brought round +hat afternoon for the 
lady's inspection, it being understood that whatever was 
selected would be paid for in Bank notes there and then. 

The gentleman, who gave his name .s Captain Garth, 
wrote down the address, and left the shop. 

About four o'clock in the afternoon a young man called 
at the address given, with the jewelry. He was shown 
upstairs to the first floor into an elegantly-furnished sit- 
ting-room. 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


251 

After waiting a moment the door opened, and Captain 
Garth came in. 

“ My wife will be here in a moment,” he said. “ Have 
you brought all the things I looked at ? ” 

Yes, sir,” said the shopman, “ all of them. 

And he drew a parcel from his pocket and commenced 
to open it 

While he was doing so a young lady came in. 

These are the things I was telling you about, my 
dear,” said the Captain. 

The young lady picked up one of the tiaras and took it 
towards the window, to get the light on the stones. 

The jeweller s assistant followed her, turning his back 
to the Captain. 

In a moment he was seized from behind, and a hand- 
kerchief or pad was pressed to his nose and mouth. He 
knew at once that it was saturated with chloroform. He 
made a struggle to get free and cry out, but he was held 
too firmly, and gradually he became helpless, and pres- 
ently all consciousness of whc.t was going on left him. 

When he came to himself he was sitting in an arm- 
chair. 

As soon as he recovered sufficiently to remember what 
had happened, he staggered up and looked about. 

The Captain and the young lady were gone, so were 
the jewels. 

He opened the door and called loudly for help. 

The servant came running up, and he cried out that 
he had been robbed, and asked wildly where the man 
and woman had gone to. 

“I don’t know,” said the girl, “ ain’t they in the other 
room ? ” 

She went into the other room and found it empty. 

^‘They must have gone out when I heard the door 
slam,” she said. “I thought it was you.” 

The young man, without stopping to make any further 
inquiry, staggered out into the street. He was still slightly 
under the influence of chloroform, and told his story to 
the first policeman he met. 

The policemi.n returned with him to the house, but 
naturally the fugitives were not discovered inside it. 

In reply to inquiries it was ascertained that Captain 
and Mrs. Garth had taken furnished apartments in the 


252 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


house, paying the rent in advance. They had taken the 
sitting-room and two bedrooms, saying their luggage 
was coming on in the afternoon from the Langham 
Hotel. 

They had only taken possession that morning, and had 
given themselves out as Americans on a short visit to 
England. 

The assistant at once saw that his firm had been the 
victim of a cleverly-planned robbery, and he hurried back 
to the shop to inform the proprietor of his adventure. 

A fortnight afterwards a woman, answering the descrip- 
tion of Mrs. Garth, was seen going into a pawnbroker’s 
shop. 

She tried to pledge a diamond ring. The detective, 
who had followed her, made a sign to the pawnbroker, 
which he understood, and the money asked was ad- 
vanced. 

The young woman left the shop, and the detective fol- 
lowed her. He believed that having got the money she 
would take it to the man, and he was right. 

A man was waiting round a corner some little distance 
away. 

He did not look like Captain Garth, because that 
worthy had a beard, while this man was clean shaven ; 
but the detective had seen quite enough, and with the 
aid of the policeman on the beat, the man and the woman 
were arrested and taken in a cab to the police station. 

Then the jeweller’s assistant who had been at once 
sent for, immediately identified them as the lady and 
gentleman who had been in the room when he was 
chloroformed. 

Two more rings were found on the woman, but 
nothing was found on the man, and both of them obsti- 
nately refused to say where they lived. 

The detective then saw for the first time that he had 
been in too great a hurry. He should have followed 
them to their residence and he would have probably dis- 
covered more of the stolen property. 

Before the trial, however, in consequence of the public- 
ity given to the case, a woman came forward and stated 
that her gentleman lodger, who had gone out on the day 
of the arrest, had never returned. Some prisoners were 
paraded and she picked the Captain out as her missing 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


253 

lodger — of the young lady she knew nothing. Captain 
Garth, or Mr. Jones as he called himself to her, had lived 
in the apartments alone, and no lady had visited him. 

All attempts to discover the young woman’s lodging 
failed utterly, and at the Captain's apartments nothing 
was discovered, but a clue being followed up, the male 
prisoner was eventually identified as a man who had 
been in trouble before for swindling, and had been in the 
hands of the prison authorities twice under different 
names. 

At the trial the evidence for the prosecution was simple 
and direct. The prisoners made no defence. The only 
thing the female prisoner did was to state that she was not 
Captain Garth’s wife. 

Both were found guilty on the evidence and sentenced 
to a long ferm of imprisonment, and the case having 
been a nine days’ wonder, was gradually forgotten. 

Mr. Din more Smith read and re-read the case, and two 
points struck him in particular. One was that the female 
prisoner, who had been charged in the name of Annie 
Garth, had refused to say what her correct name was, 
but had gone out of her way to declare that she was not 
the male prisoner’s wife. And the other was that at the 
time of the arrest she and the man were not living at the 
same address. 

This might have been only a matter of precaution. 
Had they occupied the same lodging they might have 
been more readily suspected by people who had read of 
the robbery. 

But Mr. Smith remembered that at the house where 
the robbery was committed they had taken two bedrooms ; 
and though the man had called the woman his wife, 
both there and at the jeweller’s there was the woman’s 
distinct denial of the relationship at a time when that re- 
lationship might have weighed with the jury in consider- 
ing her share in the crime. 

“If she was not his wife, what was she?” said Mr. 
Smith to himself. Then he remembered the prison baby ; 
and that made him still further wonder that the girl should 
have gone out of her way to repudiate the relationship. 

The more Mr. Smith thought the case over, the more 
convinced he became that there must have been some 
strong motives for the woman’s disclaimer. 


254 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


The prison baby had caused him to be interested in the 
mother, and the matron's story other gentleness and good 
behavior in prison had increased that interest He 
couldn’t help feeling that, for the baby’s sake, he should 
like to have proved the mother’s innocence. What a fine 
thing it would have been for him if he could have done 
so, and have written letters to the newspapers showing 
his skill as an amateur detective. There was a great 
dramatist once who fought the battle of a woman con- 
demned to death for murder, and had the satisfaction of 
seeing her a free woman. There was a lady novelist still 
living who saved a girl condemned to death for the mur- 
der of her infant, on the very morning fixed for her ex- 
ecution. 

Mr. Smith, having mastered the details of the case, had 
no hope of proving Annie Garth’s innocence, "but he felt 
that he should like to fathom her motive in denying that 
she was legally married to her accomplice. She might 
not have been even his mistress. It was almost clear that 
they had not lived together as man and wife, from the 
facts to which I have previously alluded. Before he 
put the case from his mind and resumed his work he de- 
termined that this at least he would do. He would try 
and find out if possible what was the relationship in which 
this man and woman stood to each other at the time of 
the robbery. Something might come of such a discovery 
after all. Perhaps something which would give a dif- 
ferent aspect to the woman’s share in the transaction. 

The next day Mr. Smith wrote to his friend Capt. Dan- 
vers at the Home Office. Would the Captain help him to 
ascertain a few particulars concerning the man who had 
committed the jewel robbery — would it be possible to ob- 
tain an interview with him in prison, etc. Having posted 
his letter, Mr. Smith went to call upon his married sister, 
Mrs. Winslow, and being full of his recent prison exper- 
iences he told her all about Annie Garth and the prison 
baby. 

Mrs. Winslow was soon interested in her brother’s nar- 
rative. She had lost her own little baby, a pretty little 
girl of three, and she felt a deep sympathy with the 
young mother whose child had been born in a prison. 

“ Poor creature !” she exclaimed, “how terribly sad. 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


255 


If she is a gentle, refined woman, as you say, it must be 
a terrible grief to her. Yet,” she added, with a sigh, 
“she can see her baby sometimes. She has it still.” 

“ I suppose so,” said her brother ; “but the poor wo- 
man is dangerously ill. What an awful thing for her to 
think that she may die there, die and leave her little one 
under such terrible circumstances.” 

“ Don't talk about it, "said Mrs. Winslow, with ashudder. 

Mr. Smith stayed some time and then he rose to go. 

As he was leaving Mrs. Winslow stopped him. 

“John,” she said, “ I should like to know more about 
that poor woman, and her baby. I — I — dare say you'll 
think me very foolish, but do you know, if I might, I 
should like to get that baby out of the prison and take 
care of it till the mother is free again.” 

“ Good gracious, what a strange idea ! ” 

“ It is strange, I daresay, but you don't know how I 
miss my own baby. I think it would do me good to 
have something that would keep me from brooding over 
my loss. You might ask if such a thing could be.” 

Mr. Smith promised that he would ask the question, 
but he did it more to satisfy his sister than with any idea 
of seriously considering her proposition. 

As he walked home he fell into a brooding fit himself. 
He began to think over his own great sorrow — the sorrow 
which had almost crushed him to the earth. 

Three years previously he had married a girl he had 
first met on the stage, a good, amiable, pretty girl, who 
had played a small part in one of his pieces. They had 
been together happy for two short months, and then she 
had left him — left him with a cruel letter, or what he 
thought a cruel letter, saying that their marriage had 
been a mistake, and that she had gone away, and that he 
was free to marry a woman more worthy of his love. 

He ascertained that she had left his house in his ab- 
sence in the country with a man who had visited her 
there on several occasions unknown to him. Maddened 
with jealousy and rage, he had at once commenced pro- 
ceedings for divorce, and on the wife's written confession 
and the evidence of the servants, he had obtained what 
he sought — the wife making no attempt to defend the 
case. After the lapse of six months the decree was made 
absolute, and he was a free man. 


TALES OF TO-DA Y. 


256 

Free — in the eyes of the law, but his heart was not free, 
for in spite of all that had happened he had loved his 
young wife with a love that was too deep for even the 
wrong he had suffered to efface it. 

“ How different things might have been,'' he sighed. 
‘‘Heigho, what's the use of thinking. We all have our 
troubles in this world. That's what we're born for. I’ll 
forget my own and think of somebody else's. " 

So he began to think of Annie Garth again, and when 
he got home he found a letter from Captain Danvers, say- 
ing that he would be at the club that evening and tliey 
would talk the matter over. 

“Right,” said the dramatist ; “I daresay he'll be able 
to get me an interview with the man, but I wonder what 
he'll say when I tell him that my sister wants to adopt 
that prison baby. 

When Mr. Dinmore Smith, the dramatist, met Captain 
Danvers, one of Her Majesty’s Inspectors of Prisons, at 
the Club according to appointment, he lost no time in 
coming to the subject which was uppermost in his mind. 

He informed his friend that since the visit to the prison 
he had read up the case of the young woman convicted 
of the jewel robbery, and he was anxious to obtain a little 
further information, and for that purpose he should have 
to trespass still further upon the Captain’s kindness. 

“What do you want.? ” said the Captain. 

“ I want to obtain an interview with the male prisoner, 
the man who called himself Captain Garth. ” 

“You don't suppose he would give you any informa- 
tion.?” 

“ He might — the information I want. What I am anx- 
ious to find out is the exact relationship in which the 
woman stood to him.” 

“That’s hardly difficult to arrive at,” replied the Cap- 
tain. “The baby ought to be a pretty good clue to any- 
one in doubt.” 

“Under ordinary circumstances, yes, but the girl was 
so anxious at the trial to have it thoroughly understood 
that she was not Garth’s wife. She wasn’t living with 
him when they were arrested, and at the Piccadilly lodg- 
ings they had taken three rooms, if you remember.” 

‘ ‘ Does that suggest anything to you, then .? '' 

“Yes. It suggests to me that there is a mystery which 


TALES OF TC-DAY, 


2S7 


we have not yet fathomed. It seems odd to me that this 
young woman, who is described as a gentle, well-be- 
haved creature, and who has preserved such an obstinate 
silence, according to the matron, concerning her share in the 
transaction, should have been mixed up in such an affair 
at all. I have an idea that after all she may have been 
innocent of any direct share in it — she may have been the 
victim of circumstances.” 

“ I’m afraid you’re letting your sympathy with a pretty 
woman run away with you, my dear fellow,” said the 
Captain. “So far as I remember the case, the woman 
was in the room at the time the jeweler’s assistant was 
chloroformed, and escaped from the room with Garth. 
She must have been an accomplice, and later on she was 
found attempting to pawn a portion of the stolen prop- 
erty, while the man was waiting round the corner for the 
proceeds. I can’t see, myself, under these circumstances, 
where the innocence can possibly come in.” 

“It looks black against the woman certainly, uncom- 
monly black ; but I want to get at her motive in helping 
this man, who must have been at least thirty years her 
senior, in his wicked plot.” 

She probably helped him because she was his mis- 
tress, and she would have benefited by the transaction.” 

“ I don’t think so. ” 

“What do you think, then ! ” 

“I think that this girl was an unwilling assistant all 
through — that for some reason, which did not come out 
at the trial, she was in this man’s power, and that he 
compelled her to do what she did.” 

The Captain shrugged his shoulders. 

“ You may be right,” he said ; “ I don’t think you are, 
but even then the woman was guilty in the eyes of the 
law, not being his wife. According to her own state- 
ment, she was not in the slightest way compelled to 
obey the fellow. I don’t think that anything you could 
discover would have altered the verdict.” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps not, but it might have mitigated her punish- 
ment. I tell you frankly that since I saw that poor little' 
girl baby in the prison nursery, and learned the mother’s 
story, the desire to find out her real share in the transac- 
tion has become a fixed idea with me. I want to see the 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


258 

man. It is just possible I might get from him an inkling 
of the truth. ” 

“ That’s a difficult job, and even if it could be managed, 
I doubt if the prisoner would tell you anything but lies.” 

“ Will you try and manage it for me ? ” 

“I’ll see. You will have to get an order from the 
Home Secretary, and I shall have to find a very strong 
reason for asking that it may be granted.” 

“Well, try.” 

“ Oh, I’ll try. I’ll think the matter out and see which 
is the best way to go about it, and let you know. In the 
meantime I’ll make inquiries at the prison about the man 
— he may have friends from whom you could obtain the 
information, you know.” 

With this promise Mr. Dinmore Smith was obliged 
to be satisfied, and there the matter was left for the time. 

Before they parted, Mr. Smith remarked that he had 
another question to ask his friend. What were the regu- 
lations with regard to children born in the prison ? Sup- 
posing a convict mother consented, might not some re- 
spectable person outside have the custody of the baby ? 

Captain Danvers didn’t think that there was any official 
obstacle to such an arrangement. It frequently happened 
that the friends of the prisoner took the baby as soon as 
it could leave the mother, and brought it up until its 
mother was set at liberty. 

^ “But,” he added, with a smile, “you surely don’t con- 
template taking the child yourself ? ” 

“No, but my sister, to whom I told the story, would 
take it, I think. She has just lost her own little one, and 
is sentimental on the subject of babies, you know.” 

“Well, it would be a fine thing for the child if the 
mother would consent — which is doubtful. But I’ll see 
about that too for you, if you are serious. You seem to 
have got the woman and her baby on your brain ! ” 

“ In some unaccountable way I have. When will you 
let me know the result of your inquiries ? ” 

“ Well, I’m rather busy just now. I have to inspect 
•some provincial prisons this week. I shall be away about 
a fortnight. On my return I’ll see what can be done.” 

The conversation then turned on other subjects, and 
presently the two men separated. 

As they were parting the Captain jokingly said, “I 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


259 


say, old fellow, I hope when you adopt the baby you’ll 
be satisfied. Don’t ask me to take an offer of marriage 
on your behalf to the mother. According to all accounts 
she’s a very beautiful and fascinating young woman.” 

The dramatist smiled, but his smile was a sad one. 

“ No fear of that,” he said. “ My first matrimonial ex- 
perience was too terrible a one for me ever to be tempted 
to repeat the experiment.” 

I beg your pardon, old fellow, I’d forgotten about 
that. Forgive me, won’t you ? ” 

“ There is nothing to forgive. Good night, and thank 
you very much for the trouble you are taking for me.” 

Delighted to do anything I can for you. Good 
night ” 

About a fortnight after the conversation at the club, 
Mr. Smith was sitting at his desk, in the throes of a drama 
which obstinately refused to allow itself to be constructed 
on recognized dramatic lines, when his servant came in- 
to his room with a telegram. 

He opened it and read it. 

“ Call upon me at the Home office, if possible, to-day, 
before two o’clock. Important Danvers.” 

At one o’clock Mr. Smith was at the Home office, and 
was taken at once to Captain Danvers’ room in the Prison 
Department 

“Hullo, old fellow,” said the Captain. “Sorry to 
fetch you here, but I only came up for the day on business, 
and I leave for Manchester again to-night, so I couldn’t 
call on you.” 

“You have some information for me about — ” 

“ About the prison baby’s mamma ? Yes. I wrote to 
the matron the other day, and her letter in reply has been 
lying here for me, so that I only got it this morning. 
Read it. ” 

The Captain handed Mr. Smith a letter which was as 
follows : — 

“ Dear sir, — The prisoner, Annie Garth, about whom 
you inquire, is still seriously ill — so ill that her life is 
despaired of. I do not think myself that she will ever 
recover. I spoke to her about the baby being taken by 
a lady, and she seemed pleased to think that the little one 
would have a home instead of going to the workhouse. 


26 o 


TALES OF TO-LAY. 


But she did not want it sent away yet. She says it is her 
only comfort to see it now and then, and she has quite 
made up her mind that she is going to die. She says she 
shall die happier , knowing that the baby will have a 
friend when she is gone. I think myself that it would be 
as well to leave the child here for the present. The poor 
woman will not, I feel confident, last very long. 

“ I am, sir, your obedient servant, 

“ , Chief Matron.” 

“Poor thing,” said Mr. Smith, as he put the letter 
down, “ what a terrible life drama it is ! ” 

“If she dies, am I to understand that your sister will 
take the child .? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ It will be an act of real Christian charity. Poor little 
mite, it will save it from being sent to the workhouse.” 

“Now about the other matter. The interview with 
the man. I suppose you haven’t had time to do anything 
in that direction yet.” 

“Yes, I have. I have ascertained that on visiting 
days he has been visited by a man who says that he is 
his brother. I have ascertained that this man is a stage 
carpenter at one of the East End theatres. I have his ad- 
dress for you somewhere.” 

The Captain looked in his pocket book, and presently 
from a mass of papers selected a half sheet of paper on 
which an address had been written down. 

He handed it to Mr. Smith. 

“There you are,” he said, “there is the name of the 
theatre at which he is employed and there is his private 
address. If you take my advice, instead of going through 
the tedious process of getting an order for an interview 
with the prisoner, you’ll go and see this man. You’ll 
probably get a great deal more out of him than you will 
out of the convict. 

“Thanks,” said Mr. Smith, putting the address care- 
fully away. “At any rate I will see this man. He may 
save me any further trouble.” 

The next day Mr. Smith was too busy to go out, but 
the following morning he made his way to the Thea- 

tre, and being known professionally, had no difficulty in 
getting on to the stage, where Joseph Ruston, the carpem 
ter attached to the establishment, was at work. 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


261 


Introducing himself, and saying that he wished to 
speak to Mr. Ruston on private business, Mr. Smith had 
very little difficulty in persuading that gentleman to step 
across the road with him to |the public-house and have a 
glass of ale. 

Entering a private bar, which at that time of the day 
was empty, and the beer having been called for, the 
dramatist plunged at once m tnedias res. 

“You must forgive me asking you," he said, “but 
are you not a relative of the man who calls himself Garth, 
and who, about two years ago, was convicted of chloro- 
forming and robbing a jeweller s assistant " 

The carpenter, who had the glass of ale to his lips, put 
it down again with a trembling hand, while his face chang- 
ed color. 

“ Don’t be alarmed," exclaimed Mr. Smith. “I assure 
you that your secret is safe with me, and that my motive 
for asking you is not an unkind one. I am anxious, on 
the contrary, to do one of the prisoners a service." 

“ I — I don’t know how you found it out," stammered 
the man, “ but I hope you won’t go putting it about. It 
would do me a lot of injury if it was known here." 

“I quite understand that, and I give you my word of 
honor that no one shall know it from me. I have only 
come to you for some information, for which I should 
otherwise have had to go to your brother. " 

“ He is my brother, worse luck," said the man, “and 
a nice disgrace he’s been to the family. We lost sight of 
him for years, and I never knew it was him as was mixed 
up in that chloroforming business till I had a letter from 
him after he was in prison. ’’ 

“Then you hadn’t seen much of him previous to that." 

“I hadn’t seen him for nearly twenty years — the last 
time as I saw him was when he went to America with 
his wife and child." 

“He was married twenty years ago, then ? " 

“ Four and twenty years ago. He was a steady chap 
after he married, and he did pretty well in the States for 
a time, but he got into bad company, I suppose. At any 
rate, I know he got in prison, there, " 

“And his wife — " 

“ Died of a broken heart, I believe.” 

“ What became of the child? ” 


262 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


•‘I heard she was taken care of by the people in whose 
house the wife died while her father was in jail.” 

“ Since he has been in prison this time you have seen 
hi m .? ” 

Yes, twice on visiting days. There was some family 
matters I wanted to see him about.” 

“Now tell me, if you know — this young woman who 
helped him to commit the crime — she was his mistress, I 
suppose.” 

“Nothing of the kind. She was his daughter.” 

“His daughter,” exclaimed Mr. Smith, trying to bring 
all the facts of the case back to his mind, “that was it, 
was it. Why didn’t she say so at the trial. Why did she 
keep her relationship a mystery ? ” 

“ I believe there was some reason. I didn’t have much 
time to go into that with Jim ; there was a warder sitting 
between us all the time, you know, and Jim evidently 
didn’t want to say too much, but I understood as she was 
his gal.” 

“Don’t you know yourself. Can’t you form any idea 
why she concealed the true relationship ? ” 

The carpenter shrugged his shoulders. “She was a 
curious, retercent sort of gal, I believe, and kept her troubles 
to herself. I believe that she hadn’t seen her father for 
years till they met accidentally, and then she went to 
live with him. I never saw her after she was a child and 
went to America. I heard that she came over to Eng- 
land long before he did, and supported herself, but that’s 
only what I gathered from Jim in the few minutes we 
had together.” 

“You haven’t been to see her? ” 

“No, she don’t know me ; don’t know of my existence, 
I dare say, for I never kept up any correspondence after 
Jim got into trouble in the States. I thought the less I 
had to do with him the better for me.” 

“ Do you know that after she was imprisoned she be- 
came a mother ? ” 

“No!” exclaimed the carpenter, opening his eyes, 
“I didn’t. Jim never told me. P’raps he didn’t know 
himself.” 

“ Perhaps not.” 

“ Poor girl, what an awful thing for her, but I can’t un- 
derstand it. I thought that she was a most quiet, re- 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


263 

spectable girl from what Jim said. Poor girl. Talk about 
the sins of the fathers coming on the children, it is true 
sometimes, ain’t it .? ” 

“Yes, unfortunately. But about the poor girl; you 
can give me no idea of what she was before she went 
back to her father ” 

“No, I can’t, indeed. I tell you that the less I knew 
about Jim and his people the better I liked it. So the 
poor girl had a baby, born in the prison, did she.? Well, 
so to speak, she’s my own flesh and blood, and I’m sorry 
for it. I wish I hadn’t knowed it.” 

“ That is all the information you can give me .?” 

“Yes, and as I have given it, perhaps you’ll tell me 
what you w’ant it for. How did you come to know about 
my niece having the baby .? ” 

“I’ve been to the prison. I learnt it there.” 

“You went to see her,” exclaimed the carpenter, suspi- 
ciously. 

“No, I went there on other business, and learnt her 
story quite accidentally. It interested me, and I wanted 
to see if I could find any of her relatives,” 

“ You’re not going to ask me to take the child, I sup- 
pose,” exclaimed the carpenter. 

“No.” 

“That’s right, because I’ve seven of my own, and 
that’s quite as many as I can do with.” 

“I had no idea of that sort, but I’m glad I’ve found 
you. You are at any rate a relative of the poor girl’s, 
and if anything can be done for her or the child I shall 
let you know.” 

“ Oh, that’s all right, I’m very sorry for the girl, I give 
you my word, and I should be glad if anything could be 
done for her when she comes out, as I believe she wouldn’t 
have done as she did but for her father. I daresay he 
forced her to it. He never let man, woman, or child 
stand in his way, and he never thought of anybody but 
himself, and a nice mess he’s made of it.” 

The stage carpenter finished his ale and said that he 
must be going — he was wanted on the stage and he’d 
stayed too long already. 

Mr. Smith thanked him for the information he had 
given, and before he had left gave him his solemn promise 
that he would not divulge his relationship to the convicts 


264 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


to any one who was likely to come in contact with .him. 

With this assurance the carpenter professed himself sat- 
isfied and returned to the theatre. 

Left alone, the dramatist thought over all that he had 
learned and tried to see in what way it affected the situa- 
tion. 

The girl was Garth’s daughter — there was no doubt 
about that. Then came the question who was the father 
of her child. He presumed that the poor girl, previous 
to meeting her father, had contracted one of those illegal 
unions which are unfortunately too common, and that 
the punishment of her fault had fallen thus entirely upon 
herself. “The man must have been a coward,” he said, 
“not to come forward, not to make some inquiry at the 
prison for the poor woman who had to suffer so terribly 
for her faith in him. Perhaps he had inquired, perhaps 
he had visited her. But he thought if it had been so he 
should have heard of it through Captain Danvers, as the 
matron would have told him when the application was 
made about the child. No, wherever the father of the 
poor little one was he had kept out of the way. 

That was what Mr. Smith considered after thinking the 
matter carefully out. 

The information he had obtained so far would fail to 
benefit the female convict in the eyes of the law. She was 
the male criminal’s daughter, but that did not compel her 
to be his accomplice. If a father and daughter commit a 
crime together, the daughter, being a grown-up young- 
woman, could not claim that she was forced into the act 
by her father’s exercise of authority. 

The net result of all that Mr. Smith had learned, there- 
fore came to this. The woman at the time she assisted 
her father to commit a robbery and to get rid of the pro- 
ceeds, had a lover, and that lover was the man who ought 
to be found for the sake of the child. 

“I should like to find the fellow,” thought Mr. Smith 
to himself, “and tell him what I think of him. But I 
might as well, with the few facts I have to go upon, look 
for a needle in a bottle of hay unless the girl herself would 
reveal the secret. ” But the girl was dying, and even if 
she recovered she would probably be as silent in the fu- 
ture as she had been in the past. Her lover’s name was 
never likely’ to pass her lips. 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


265 

A month after his interview with the stage carpenter of 
the Theatre, the prison baby was in Mrs. Win- 

slow’s house. 

The poor mother had justified the prognostication of 
the matron and had passed away, to be tried for her 
earihly crimes before the all-merciful Judge. 

They brought the baby to her as she was dying. She 
opened her eyes and looked yearningly at the face of her 
baby girl. The child recognizing her said “Mum-mum,” 
and smiled. 

The dying woman motioned to them to put the child 
near her. 

They placed its little face close to hers, and she pressed 
her clammy lips to its soft, white cheek. 

She murmured something which was indistinct to those 
who stood beside her bed, and then she gave a long, deep 
sigh and died. 

The child, by the direction of Captain Danvers, who 
had interested himself greatly in the case, was taken the 
next day to Mrs. Winslow, who took the poor little 
motherless prison baby to her breast, and wept many 
womanly tears over it, and promised to love it as though 
it had been her own. 

Mr. Smith, the dramatist, came almost every day to see 
it ; and the child took to him, at once, and was never so 
happy as when it was upon his knee. 

The child had been christened Amy. 

When Mr. Smith discovered the child’s name, it gave 
him a slight pang : for Amy had been his wife’s name — 
Amy Brown, not a romantic name — not the name in 
which the girl acted, but the name which she told her 
husband w^s her real one. 

In Little Amy, as the child grew to be called, the dram- 
atist found a new source of delight. When he was weary 
and worn out with the cares and anxieties of his profes- 
sion, he would go round to his sister’s and romp with 
Little Amy. 

And it was at such a time that the regret he felt for the 
loss of his wife was intensified. Had she been true to 
him such a child as this might now have been upon his 
knees — his own, his very own. 

It was about a year after Little Amy came into Mr. 
Smith’s family circle that one day Captain Danvers, his 


266 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


old friend, drove up to Mr. Smith’s door in a hansom and 
asked to see the master at once. 

He was informed that Mr. Smith was at the house of 
his sister, Mrs. Winslow, and thither the Captain drove at 
once. » 

He was shown into the drawing-room, and presently 
Mr. Smith came in. 

“ Fm so glad you’ve come,” he said, “ I want to show 
you the prison baby. Hasn’t she grown 

The Captain looked at the golden-haired, blue-eyed 
girl, who, holding Mr. Smith’s hand, was just able to 
toddle, and then he picked the child up and took it on his 
knee. 

“ What a strange sad story this poor mite’s is,” he said. 
“You can’t think how glad lam. Smith, old fellow, that 
you and your good sister rescued it from its fate and 
made it as your own child.” 

“ Not more glad than I am, old fellow; I love it as if it 
were my own.” 

The Captain put the child down, and Mr. Smith took it 
upon his knee, smoothing the little golden curls lovingly 
as he did so. 

“ Dad, dad,” said the child, crowing and laughing as he 
gave it a ride to Banbury Cross. 

“ It calls me dad, you see,” said Mr. Smith with a 
smile. It’s adopted mea.nd no mistake.” 

‘‘ It’s a wise child,” said the Captain. 

Then he added in a more serious tone of voice, "" I’ve 
got a long story to tell you, old fellow, so just sit there 
as quiet as you can and let me get it out. The man who 
called himself Garth is dead. ” 

“ What ! did he die in prison ? ” 

“Yes, he met with an accident. It is presumed that 
he was trying to escape. At any rate he was found one 
afternoon after exercise, lying on the ground near the 
wall with a broken back. ” 

“ Poor devil ! ” 

“ He knew that he couldn’t recover, and before he died 
he sent for the prison chaplain and made a confession.” 

“Yes, yes ! ” exclaimed Mr. Smith, eagerly 

“ He told the chaplain the whole story of the crime for 
which he had been condemned, and as it interests you for 
the child’s sake, I must tell it from beginning to end.” 


TALES OF TO-DAY. 


26^ 

After relating the events of his career, which had long 
been a criminal one, he told the chaplain that on his re- 
turn to England, he discovered that his daughter, whom 
he had lost sight of for years, had been earning her own 
living and was -married to a respectable and wealthy 
man. 

He tracked her down, obtained an interview, and let her 
know that her father was a notorious swindler and thief. 
He tried to levy blackmail upon the girl, and finding she 
was terrified, he declared that he would seek an interview 
with her husband and get money from him. 

‘When he knows what his father-in-law is,^ the wretch 
said, ‘ he’ll stand him a good round annual allowance to 
keep out of the way, I know. ’ 

The girl was so horrified that she begged her father to 
give her time to see what could be done. 

Her husband was away. The father came again and 
again, had long and private interviews with his daughter, 
and one night they left the house together. 

The girl left a note for her husband behind her — leaving 
him to think the worst. Her father had made a proposi- 
tion to her and she had agreed to it, rather than that her 
husband should know she was a thief’s daughter and be 
blackmailed by that thief for the rest of his life. 

The man, it seems, wanted an accomplice to help him 
in a series of great jewel robberies which he had long 
been contemplating. 

He did not tell the girl this — he only said that if she 
would come and be his daughter again he would not 
trouble her husband. 

Mad with horror, her brain half turned, the poor girl 
consented. 

The first plot was a successful one. It was the jewel 
robbery in which the assistant was chloroformed and 
over a thousand pounds worth of jewels obtained. 

He says that his daughter had not the slightest idea 
what he was going to do. But when he brought her 
into the room and told her to take the jewels to the light, 
she was too terrified to do anything but obey. 

Then followed the crime, and both fled. She grew as 
fearful of arrest as the man, for she feared that if taken 
her husband might hear of the case and recognize her by 
the description. 


268 


TALES OF TO-DAY, 


From that moment she was completely in the man’s 
power, and when he told her to take a separate lodging 
near him, she did so, and by his command took some of 
the jewelry to pawn on the day she was arrested. 

He says that at this time she was so beside herself with 
grief and terror that he could make her do anything by 
threatening that if she did not he would go and make 
himself known to her husband. 

The rest you know. At the trial the poor girl pre- 
served an ob^inate silence, except to say that she was 
not the man’s wife. Something prompted her to say 
that. 

Mr. Smith had listened to the narrative so far in 
speechless horror. Once he had tried to speak, and the 
words failed him, but at last as the Captain paused he 
found his voice. 

“Good God, Danvers,” he cried, “this girl’s story is 
the story of my — of my wife.” 

“Yes, the man confessed that his daughter was the 
wife* of Mr. Dinmore Smith, the dramatist, who had ob- 
tained a divorce on the strength of her letter and flight 
with him, and her continued absence.” 

“ Stay — let me think it all out. Only give me air, open 
the windows. Let me see, this crime was committed about 
a month after my wife left me.” 

“Yes.” 

“ It was a month before she was sentenced 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ It was about five months after she had been in — prison 
that her baby was born ? ” 

“Yes.” 

The distracted man looked from the Captain to the child 
upon his knee. Then with a cry he caught it to his breast. 

“My little one, ” he cried, ‘ ‘ my own child. The prison 
baby was mine — mine ; and my poor girl lay there dying, 
and I so near her and never saw her. Great God, it is too 
terrible !” 

“ My poor friend,” said the Captain, “God’s ways are 
inscrutable. After all it was perhaps for the best when 
things had gone so far. The crime had been committed, 
the prison taint was upon her, she could never have come 
out into the world again the same woman that you knew 
and loved. She would have felt that this was a great bar 


TAZm OF TO-DAY, 269 

between you, and that she must have done you an injury 
had she returned a convict to be your wife again.” 

“My poor girl, my poor wronged girl, ” cried the man, 
his eyes filling with tears. “ At the very time that the law 
was releasing me from her, as a guilty woman she was 
dying broken-hearted in the prison to which she had gone 
to save me from shame.” 


There are some griefs which are too sacred to dwell 
upon. Such a grief was that of the man who heard too 
late the true story of the wife whom he had believed to be 
faithless to him. But all griefs yield in a measure to time, 
the great consoler ; and the day came at last when Little 
Amy’s father could sit and think calmly of the past. 

And at that time he was supremely thankful to the 
Providence which had led him in such a mysterious way 
to rescue the prison baby and to learn to love it as his 
own child long before he really knew that it was so. 

He has placed a beautiful monument to his wife in the 
cemetery, to which he obtained permission to move her, 
and there is a lovely garden planted around it. 

And sometimes, when the day is bright and warm, he 
takes his little girl with him to the cemetery, and tells her 
to lay the sweet posy of flowers, which he had gathered 
for her in their little garden, upon the marble monument. 

And then, kissing the little one by the last resting-place 
of his lost wife, he takes her hand, and they go quietly 
home together ; and in the clasp of that little hand he 
finds at once his consolation for the past and his hope for 
the future. 


The End. 




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